M-  1M 

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THE    STIRRUP    LATCH 


THE 
STIRRUP    LATCH 


BY 

SIDNEY    McCALL 

AUTHOR    OF    "TRUTH    DEXTER," 
"  THE   BREATH   OF   THE   GODS,"   ETC. 


WITH    FRONTISPIECE   BY 
WILLIAM    VAN    DRESSER 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,    BROWN,    AND    COMPANY 
1915 


Copyright, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  October,  1915 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  J.  S.  Gushing  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Presswork  by  S.  J.  Parkhill  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


URL 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.  "LITTLE  SUNSHINE" 

II.  COLONEL  JIM 

III.  JULIA 

IV.  COLONEL  JIM  RECEIVES  A  LETTER    . 

V.    JIM  BREAKS  AN  OLD  PROMISE,  AND  MAKES  A 

NEW  ONE     

VI.     THE  PELICANS 

VII.     JIM'S  TELEPHONE  RINGS 

VIII.      ClCELEY   AND   THE   "LITTLE   EWE    LAMB" 

IX.  THE  WOMAN 

X.  THE  ROSE  OF  DAWN 

XI.  CICELEY'S  GARDEN 

XII.  JULIA  STARTS  SOMETHING          . 

XIII.  THE  GIRLS 

XIV.  JULIA  OUTLINES  A  CAMPAIGN    . 

XV.     MOTHER  AND  SON      ...... 

XVI.     THE  PLANKS  OF  COLONEL  JIM'S  BRIDGE  BURN, 
ONE  AFTER  ONE 

XVII.  PREPARATIONS;    AND   THE    WRITING   OF  Two 

LETTERS       

XVIII.  THE  MELTING  OF  THE  ICE-MAIDEN  . 

XIX.  THE  RETURN 

XX.  THE  DANCE  OF  THE  LITTLE  SEA-MAID    . 

XXI.  THE  GARDEN  OF  HESPERIDES    .... 

XXII.  THE  FUTURE,  —  THROUGH  A   HOLLY  WREATH 


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3°7 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 


CHAPTER  ONE 

"LITTLE  SUNSHINE" 

"LITTLE  SUNSHINE",  the  home  of  Mrs.  Ciceley 
Bering,  stood,  vine-encumbered  and  shrubbery  be 
girt,  in  the  exact  center  of  a  five-acre  lot,  seven  miles 
out  from  town. 

Three  borders  of  the  domain,  the  front,  and  the  two 
rearward  angles  immediately  dependent,  were  guarded 
by  an  old-fashioned  variety  of  wooden  fencing  known 
as  "cat's  cradle."  Between  square  posts,  erected 
fully  thirty  feet  apart,  were  nailed,  at  top  and  bottom, 
wide  pine  boards;  while  set  in  the  long  rectangle 
of  each  space,  two  similar  boards  crossing  at  a  long 
slant  gave,  indeed,  the  look  of  an  enormous  game 
of  cat's  cradle  played  with  white  tape,  and  held  not  on 
the  chubby  fingers  of  childhood,  but  rigidly  and  taut, 
on  unseen,  giant  hands.  Panel  after  geometric  panel 
stretched  to  right  and  left,  until,  at  the  far  end,  each, 
sharpened  by  perspective,  pointed  a  mere  arrowhead 
of  white. 

The  fourth  side  of  the  enclosure,  that  to  the  north, 


2  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

had  long  since  foregone  the  distinction  of  any  sort  of 
spacing.  It  was  at  the  rear  of  everything,  the 
dwelling  faced  due  south,  and  it  had  been  used  as  a 
reserve  fund  for  the  patching  of  more  conspicuous 
portions.  Each  depredation  had  been  hastily  cov 
ered  by  some  sort  of  a  substitute,  until  by  now  it 
was  an  aggregation  of  irregular,  leaning  uprights 
which  held,  and  were  in  turn  supported  by,  short 
spans  of  warped  pickets,  bits  of  wire  mesh,  and  even, 
in  a  few  ignominious  instances,  sagging  surfaces  of 
rusty  tin,  hammered  flat  from  old  kerosene  cans. 

Little  Sunshine,  in  common  with  the  other  "Fo'h 
de  War"  houses  still  standing  in  the  once  aristocratic 
residence  district  of  Richmond  Hill,  had  known  better 
days.  In  common  also  with  its  neighbors  it  had  man 
aged  to  retain,  along  with  wistfulness,  much  of  the 
old-world  serenity  and  charm. 

Each  quiet  sister-home  was  the  nucleus  of  a  broad 
green  environment,  so  that  only  the  glimpse  of  a  red 
brick  chimney  here  and  there,  the  sound  of  a  distant 
piano  tinkling  softly  through  listening  leaves,  or  the 
bright  flash,  at  times,  of  spontaneous  young  laughter, 
told  of  human  propinquity. 

It  was  the  proud  boast  of  Richmond  Hill  that  in 
spite  of  decline  it  still  tolerated  no  estate  of  less  than 
five  acres.  That  was  the  minimum.  Many  of  the 
great  mansions  possessed  ten  times  as  many.  The 
weather-beaten  homes  stood  to-day  just  as  the  war, 
now  a  generation  past,  had  left  them.  With  most, 
not  even  a  coat  of  paint  had  been  added.  The  dwellers 
in  them  were,  almost  without  exception,  direct  de 
scendants  of  the  original  builders  and  owners. 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  3 

These  had  been,  for  the  most  part,  young  English 
and  Scotchmen,  who  nearly  a  century  earlier  had 
come  from  the  old  country  to  the  new,  not  pioneers 
exactly,  and  by  no  means  adventurers,  but  rather 
alert  and  far-seeing  young  business  men  with  already 
established  lines  of  enterprise  in  the  commodities 
of  cotton,  lumber,  turpentine,  rice,  and  sugar. 

With  them  were  several  men  of  the  various  "pro 
fessions",  —  bankers,  lawyers,  physicians,  and  expert 
accountants.  At  this  time  also  was  introduced  the 
first  insurance  company  known  to  that  part  of  the 
world.  This  was  the  "Royal",  of  Liverpool  and 
London.  As  its  ensignia  it  used  an  oval  bronze  plate, 
perhaps  eight  inches  in  height,  on  which  in  bas-relief 
was  depicted  a  mother  pelican  tearing  the  flesh  from 
her  own  breast  in  order  to  feed  two  open-billed  and 
rapacious  nestlings.  This  was  by  way  of  visualizing 
the  harrowing  condition  of  a  widow  left,  on  an  im 
pecunious  lord's  decease,  without  the  pale  of  the 
"Royal's"  benefactions.  It  is  only  fair  to  add  that 
in  an  age  both  sentimental  and  chivalrous  this  con 
crete  presentation  of  anguish  went  far  toward  the 
company's  success. 

As  each  new  convert  admitted  his  conversion,  and 
paid  in  the  first  installment  of  his  policy,  there  was 
attached  to  his  home  one  of  the  oval  marks  of  merit. 
A  favorite  place  for  it  was  directly  over  the  front 
door,  and  few  were  the  houses  on  Richmond  Hill 
that  lacked  one.  By  the  present  generation  the  old- 
fashioned  tokens  had  come  to  be  regarded  as  some 
thing  between  a  joke  and  a  good-luck  fetich. 

Fortunes  large  for  that  sociological  era  were  quickly 


4  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

amassed.  Ships  loaded  with  the  far-southern  prod 
ucts  went  busily  between  the  harbor  of  the  little 
town  on  the  gulf,  and  the  big  docks  at  Liverpool. 
In  their  home  life  the  exiled  ones,  obeying  an  inher 
ent  law  of  all  British  exiles,  proceeded  to  fashion  for 
themselves  not  only  individual  estates,  but  an  entire 
community  which  should  conserve  all  usages  of  the 
parent  civilization.  Richmond  Hill,  at  the  height  of  its 
prosperity,  was  just  a  little  more  English  than  England. 

But  those  golden  days  had  vanished!  The  Civil 
War,  like  a  Medusa's  head,  froze  what  it  had  not 
otherwise  destroyed.  The  old  houses  became  pas 
sive,  resigned,  almost  indifferent.  Nature  alone 
knew  no  cessation;  and  inch  by  inch  the  growing 
things  encroached,  moving  always  nearer  to  the 
dwellings,  weaving  about  them  a  deeper  green  si 
lence  and  seclusion. 

Once  rigid  hedges,  abandoned  to  sun  and  wind  and 
rain,  sprang  into  veritable  young  forests.  Crepe- 
myrtle,  the  fernlike  fronds  of  the  mimosa,  evergreen 
gloria-mundi  and  arbor  vitae,  and  the  star-set  shrubs 
of  the  gardenia,  wrangled  and  intertwined  with  self- 
sown,  indigenous,  free  things,  —  the  wild  azalea,  high- 
bush  huckleberry,  dogwood,  red-bay,  and  occasion 
ally  a  slender,  dominant  pine. 

These  various  Sleeping  Princess  barriers  were 
kept  in  rude  bounds  from  without  by  the  nibbling  of 
strolling  cows,  and  the  more  intelligent  depredations 
of  "Ole  Man  Milliken's"  large  flock  of  goats,  but 
safe  within  the  patched  fences  a  harlequinade  of 
green  bent  inward,  leaning  all  one  way  toward  a 
white  pillared  dwelling,  and  the  long,  waving,  polyp 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  5 

branches,  distorted  to  undue  length  by  eagerness, 
seemed  to  say, "Some  day,  not  very  far  off,  now,  some 
day  I  shall  touch  you,  —  you  great  dumb,  disdainful 
house." 

Perhaps  because  of  the  man-less  condition  of  Little 
Sunshine,  —  Mrs.  Bering  had  been  a  widow  for  many 
years,  and  her  two  daughters,  though  growing  into 
womanhood  at  a  pace  which  terrified  her,  had  intro 
duced,  as  yet,  no  permanent  male  element,  —  its 
surrounding  hedge-barrier  had  become  the  most  law 
less  and  most  beautiful  of  all. 

There  were  places  where,  in  a  green,  rushing  pha 
lanx,  it  had  gained  and  held  a  full  forty  feet  into  the 
lawn.  Each  of  the  four  corners  had  become  a  web- 
footed  thicket,  where  rabbits  lived  at  ease,  and  every 
bird  known  to  the  far  south  builded  cheerily,  feeling 
its  security  inviolate.  In  spite  of  the  pleadings,  sel 
dom  denied,  of  little  Sylvia,  no  cats  were  allowed. 
After  seeing  a  whole  nestful  of  young  mocking  birds 
dragged  to  earth,  tortured,  and  then  lingeringly 
devoured,  Ciceley,  with  an  outburst  of  self-assertion 
which  amazed  her  quite  as  much  as  it  did  her  daughter, 
put  her  small  foot  down,  once  and  for  all,  upon  the 
harboring  of  cats.  Kittens  were  occasionally  ad 
mitted,  and  in  them  Sylvia  found  an  intense,  if  some 
what  uncertain  joy,  for  the  kittens  at  Little  Sunshine 
were  subject  to  a  mysterious  disappearance,  coinci 
dent  with  the  first  hint  of  a  predatory  instinct. 

As  if  to  encourage  and  abet  the  lovely  boldness  of 
her  special  hedge,  Ciceley  had,  with  her  own  hands, 
set  all  along  the  inner  border  innumerable  vines  of 
that  most  beautiful  of  all  wild  flowers,  the  yellow 


6  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

jessamine.  Each  had  been  brought  in  tenderly, 
not  without  whispered  apology  and  explanation, 
from  the  "woods."  Not  one  of  them  had  been 
ungenerous  enough  to  die.  Indeed  it  was  a  saying 
on  the  Hill  that  Ciceley  could  transplant  anything, 
from  a  live  oak  to  an  old  broom  handle,  and  it  would 
immediately  send  forth  new  and  joyous  shoots.  It 
gave  the  possessor  a  secret  but  intense  satisfaction 
to  know  that  she  had,  among  growing  things,  the  lucky 
hand.  Perhaps  the  gift  was  hers  by  way  of  compen 
sation,  for  in  many  other  respects,  Ciceley  could  not 
regard  herself  as  being  altogether  fortunate. 

In  her  garden,  at  least,  she  could  know  herself  to 
be  a  dispenser  of  beauty  and  of  joy.  The  name  of 
the  place,  Little  Sunshine,  had  from  the  first  given 
her  a  cue  for  the  amassing  of  a  preponderance  of  golden 
flowers.  Yellow  chrysanthemums  in  their  time, 
marigolds,  daffodils,  great  trumpet  narcissus,  all 
species  of  yellow  roses,  gladioli,  and  iris,  and,  in  the 
late  autumn,  a  veritable  Danae  shower  of  the  orange 
Klondyke  cosmos,  kept  the  bright  designation  visible 
in  a  calendar  of  bloom. 

What  more  suitable,  then,  that  the  entire  small 
estate  should,  for  at  least  a  few  weeks  in  each  year, 
be  enclosed  in  a  continuous  golden  filagree,  a  living 
mesh  of  sunlight  colored  flowers  ?  When  each  spring 
the  yellow  jessamines  were  in  their  glory,  Ciceley  felt 
herself  a  queen.  Even  the  sedate  and  more  common 
place  neighbors  who  had  remonstrated  with  her  for 
"  bringing  in  all  those  weeds",  came  now  to  gaze  and 
marvel  at  the  accomplished  result.  The  entire  hedge- 
top,  —  if  a  wavering  lush  growth  reaching  thirty 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  7 

feet  into  the  air  can  still  be  called  a  hedge,  —  became 
now  a  continuous  scarf  of  golden  mist,  sprinkled  with 
topaz  and  with  stars.  The  perfume,  flowing  inward, 
hung  over  the  house  like  incense  over  an  altar. 

At  such  times  Ciceley,  unable  to  resist  the  double 
lure  of  beauty  and  odor,  would  steal  from  the  house, 
laying  aside  guiltily  some  bit  of  sewing,  and  begin  a 
luxurious,  deliberate  walk  about  the  enclosure. 
Now  she  would  gaze  upward  to  the  flowers,  now 
slowly  around,  almost  incredulous  still  of  the  miracle 
she  had  helped  to  bring  about.  Then,  without 
warning,  some  too  poignant  stab  of  loveliness  would 
sting  her  quickly-lowered  eyelids  into  tears. 

In  her  girlhood  she  had  read  much  poetry.  This 
in  common  with  other  personal  delights  had  been 
long  foregone,  but  fragments  of  it  now,  very  clearly 
memorized,  not  always  entirely  relevant,  reached 
forward  from  the  past,  to  disturb  and  quicken  her. 
She  thought  of  Wordsworth's  belief  that  each  flower 
enjoys  the  air  it  breathes.  She  felt  the  thrill  of  his 
dancing  daffodils.  In  a  certain  sense,  her  beautiful, 
wild  jessamines  were  a  field  of  aerial  daffodils.  Then 
for  no  clear  reason  she  thought  of  music,  likened  to 
the  yearning  of  a  "god  in  pain."  Why  must  great 
beauty  so  often  bring  that  sense  of  yearning?  For 
this  she  had  no  answer.  There  was  nothing  in  her 
narrow,  religious  upbringing  to  solve  such  questions. 
To  all  other  such  spiritual  searching  she  had  been 
given  the  answer  that  there  was  much  we  human 
creatures  were  not  supposed  to  understand. 

So  this  also  she  made  no  attempt  to  "understand", 
only  she  felt  dimly,  with  what  was  left  of  her  child- 


8  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

hood's  faith,  that  Heaven  must  be  a  great,  golden 
moor,  entirely  surrounded  with  jessamines  that  did 
not  cause  your  heart  to  ache. 

After  all,  the  beauty  and  the  sadness  of  the  spring 
blossoming  were  transient  phases.  For  most  of  the 
year,  Ciceley's  life  passed  in  a  succession  of  small 
duties  and  adaptations.  Her  permanent  spiritual 
attitude  was  one  of  resignation.  Not  for  a  single 
day  did  Ciceley  fail  to  assure  herself  and  her  Maker 
that  the  loss  of  Henry  Bering,  five  years  after  mar 
riage,  had  been  a  tangible  cross  laid  upon  her  slender 
shoulders,  a  burden  which,  as  a  devoted  wife  and 
mother,  it  became  her  life-long  obligation  to  bear. 

That  an  all-wise  Providence  might  have  had,  in 
the  removal  of  Henry,  any  purpose  aside  from  the 
chastening  of  Henry's  widow,  was  a  thought  that 
could  never  have  been  hers.  She  had  from  the  first 
accepted  it  as  a  personal  "dispensation",  a  bereave 
ment  which  unconsciously  had  grown  into  a  habit, 
and  which  she  wore  much  as  she  did  the  unbecoming 
arrangement  of  her  hair. 

When  the  last  jessamine-star  had  fallen,  and  the 
sudden  up-rush  of  pointed  foliage  leaves  on  the 
twisted,  porphyry-colored  stems  mounted  in  small 
twin  flames,  then  the  hedge  became  an  intricate  net 
work  as  of  jade  and  malachite.  Portions  of  it  be 
came  literally  impenetrable.  And  now,  anew,  the 
elderly  matrons  of  the  neighborhood,  —  most  of  these 
had  known  Ciceley  Taliaferro  in  her  cradle,  —  reiter 
ated  protests  against  "the  way  that  Bering  jungle 
was  being  allowed  to  overrun  the  place." 

"In  my  opinion,"  declared  old  Mrs.  Rogers,  her 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  9 

Victorian  bonnet,  slightly  over  one  ear,  emitting 
jet  sparkles  of  disapproval,  "it  is  getting  to  be  posi 
tively  indecent.  Whenever  I  enter  one  of  the  Bering 
gates,  even  the  big  front  one,  I  hold  my  petticoats 
and  my  breath  in  terror  lest  a  serpent  should  rush 

out  and  assail  my  1 ,  er  —  "  she  checked  herself 

with  a  little  cough,  "that  is,  my  ankles." 

The  cough  and  apology  were  by  way  of  deference 
to  the  unwed  condition  of  one  of  her  auditors.  This 
was  Miss  Delia  Turrentine,  the  youngest  and  most 
frivolous  of  three  ancient  virgins  who  still  main 
tained  existence,  —  no  one  knew  precisely  how,  — 
in  the  stately  old  Turrentine  homestead. 

"But  it's  so  pretty  and  so  green  and  —  somehow 
—  so  /zo/^y-looking,"  Ciceley  had  demurred  when, 
half  an  hour  later,  Delia,  on  her  way  home,  had 
stopped  in  at  Little  Sunshine  for  the  purpose  of 
imparting  the  full  flavor  of  Mrs.  Rogers's  discontent. 

"Y-e-es,"  admitted  Delia,  striving  to  be  polite. 
She,  like  the  elder  dame,  retained  a  biblical  terror  of 
snakes.  Then,  in  a  sudden  rush  of  generosity, 
"Anyway,  the  paths  leading  from  the  gates  are  clear, 
and  there  are  lots  of  gates." 

Ciceley  brightened.  "Yes,  aren't  there?  Lots  of 
them!  Let's  see!"  Here  the  slim,  needle-pricked 
fingers  came  into  play.  "One  —  two  —  three  — 
five  in  all.  Why,  I  hadn't  realized  there  were  quite 
so  many !  Of  course,"  she  amended,  dropping  a 
little  of  the  ardor  of  her  tone,  "  that  west  one,  leading 
out  into  Cedar  Grove,  is  all  wired  up.  We  had  to 
do  it,  to  keep  out  old  Mrs.  Thompson's  red  cow." 

Delia  nodded  sympathetically.    She  and  her  sis- 


io  THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 

ters  knew  the  ways  of  that  maurauding  and  intelli 
gent  beast.  "It  seems  a  kind  o'  pity,"  she  mused, 
staring  from  the  wide  verandah  where  they  were 
seated  down  toward  the  now  hidden  front  entrance, 
"that  all  our  gates  couldn't  have  stirrup  latches. 
They  keep  anything  out." 

Ciceley  gave  a  little  cry  and  a  quick  gesture  of  dis 
sent.  "Oh,  no!  There  couldn't  be  another  stirrup 
latch.  There's  only  one,  and  it  belongs  right  there. 
Why,"  she  explained,  but  more  shyly,  being  over 
come  by  a  consciousness  of  her  own  unnecessary 
vehemence,  "Jim  says  that  the  stirrup  latch  is  our 
sanctuary-knocker  and  tuning-fork  in  one." 

Recalling  the  words  and  the  speaker,  Ciceley  threw 
back  her  head,  laughing  softly.  She  seldom  laughed 
aloud,  and  when  she  did  there  was  something  intan 
gibly  incongruous  in  the  sound,  as  if  a  little  brown 
hen  on  her  prescribed  nest  should  suddenly  give  forth 
the  notes  of  a  wood  thrush. 

Delia  betrayed  a  spontaneous  access  of  rigidity. 
She  glanced  sharply  sideways,  at  her  companion. 
But  Ciceley,  still  gazing  toward  the  distant  gate, 
failed  to  perceive. 

"Colonel  Jim  ought  to  know,  I  reckon,"  said  Delia 
meaningly. 

This  too  passed  Ciceley  by.  Her  thoughts  had 
turned  into  their  habitual  channel.  "Those  naughty 
girls  of  mine,"  she  began,  "have  taken  to  running  to 
the  front  windows  every  time  the  latch  falls.  Of 
course  I  laugh  at  them,  but  somehow"  -here  a 
worried  look  drifted  across  her  eager  face  —  "it 
doesn't  seem  quite  nice  of  them." 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  n 

She  paused  on  a  note  of  interrogation.  Her  gaze, 
now  seeking  Delia's,  held  a  shy  pleading.  It  was  as 
if  she  challenged  and  implored  the  other  to  assert 
that  anything  done  by  such  girls  could  fail  to  be 
"  nice." 

Delia,  meeting  the  brown  eyes,  withdrew  her  own 
as  if  they  had  been  cold  finger  tips.  "Well,"  she 
remarked,  getting  to  her  feet,  "I  reckon  I  must  be 
running  along  home  now.  The  girls  not  in?" 

Ciceley,  half-unconsciously,  had  risen  also,  and  she 
now  descended  the  wide  front  steps  with  Delia. 
It  was  quite  the  correct  thing,  on  Richmond  Hill, 
to  accompany  a  caller  to  the  front  gate. 

"No,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  the  question,  "they 
have  been  away  all  day  —  on  a  launch-party.  I 
hate  to  let  them  take  these  water-trips.  I  never 
have  an  easy  moment  until  they  are  safe  at  home 
again." 

Delia  made  no  comment.  In  silence  the  two 
walked  down  the  center  of  the  long,  curving  drive 
way.  Fountain-shaped  bushes  of  bridal  wreath 
and  syringa  bent  over  it.  Now  and  again  Ciceley 
paused  to  put  aside  some  specially  long,  encroach 
ing  spray.  Her  manner  in  doing  this  had  a  subtle 
quality  of  intimacy.  A  shrewd  observer  would 
have  seen  at  a  glance  that  she  was  much  nearer  in 
kinship  to  the  graceful  shrub  than  to  Miss  Delia. 

Within  a  few  paces  of  the  gate  the  ladies  instinc 
tively  paused,  and  stood  regarding  it  with  a  height 
ened  interest.  Each  of  the  four  other  entrances, 
including  the  wired-up  western  gate,  mathematically 
centered  a  long  fence  line;  but  this,  the  main  one, 


12  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

cut  across  the  southeast  corner,  severing  it  as  cleanly 
as  a  knife  cuts  into  a  wedge  of  cheese. 

Between  massive,  square  pillars  of  brick,  from  which 
the  last  flake  of  the  original  cement  coating  had  fallen, 
swung  two  panels  formed  of  horizontal  bars  of  oak, 
quite  widely  spaced.  Across  each  panel  ran  a  thin 
crescent  of  black,  slave-wrought  iron,  the  points 
bent  abruptly  into  hinges  that  worked  in  heavy 
staples,  mortised  deep  into  the  old  brick  piers. 

At  the  gate  center,  where  the  opposing  crescent 
backs  nearly  met,  rose,  several  inches  above  the  level 
of  the  top  bar,  what  seemed  to  be  a  wooden  post, 
terminating  in  a  sharp  point.  On  opening  the  gate, 
however,  this  resolved  itself  into  complementary 
halves,  and  over  these  converging  tips  was  placed 
the  famous  stirrup  latch. 

Hung  at  the  angle  of  one  division,  it  was  thrown 
backward  to  a  bar  in  opening,  and  forward  over  the 
adjacent  half-post  in  closing,  meeting  the  bar  be 
yond.  In  either  case  it  struck  upon  an  iron  boss, 
round  and  squat  as  a  stemless  mushroom.  The 
sound  thus  made  was  peculiarly  clear,  sharp,  and 
unforgettable.  It  was  claimed  on  the  Hill  that  in 
a  windless  atmosphere,  and  especially  at  night  when 
the  dew  gave  a  tinge  of  moisture,  it  could  be  heard 
and  recognized  fully  a  mile  away. 

To  all  intents  and  purposes  it  was  exactly  what 
"Colonel  Jim"  had  called  it,  a  sanctuary  knocker, 
with  the  sole  difference  of  being  used  horizontally 
instead  of  at  the  usual  perpendicular. 

Delia's  scrutiny  did  not  last  long,  nor  did  it  engen 
der  comment.  With  the  wiry  alertness  which  char- 


THE    STIRRUP   LATCH  13 

acterized  all  her  movements  she  stepped  forward. 
Ciceley,  murmuring  some  commonplace  regret  that 
her  guest  must  depart  so  soon,  reached  the  gate  be 
fore  her,  and  held  the  old  stirrup  upright. 

When  Delia  had  passed  through,  Ciceley  slowly 
rejoined  the  panels,  and  laid  the  latch  upon  its  ancient 
boss.  No  sound  was  made.  A  setter  dog  across  the 
street  would  not  have  twitched  an  ear.  Ciceley's 
eyes  continued  to  watch  the  slight,  nervous  figure 
as  it  hurried  down  a  vista  overhung  with  the  dark, 
earth-seeking  branches  of  old  juniper  trees.  There 
was  something  pathetic  in  its  very  energy.  What 
reason  had  Delia  to  be  energetic?  The  watcher 
could  not  help  contrasting  her  own  full  life  with  this 
emptiness.  Even  her  great  bereavement  showed  as 
a  precious  possession.  Delia  had  nothing,  not  even 
memories ! 

This  was  by  no  means  the  first  time  she  had  sad 
dened  with  the  vicarious  loneliness  of  Delia's  arid 
existence.  Usually  it  had  been  a  passing  phase, 
easily  loosed;  but  now,  for  what  reason  she  could 
not  say,  it  deepened,  and  was  drawing  irresistibly 
near.  From  somewhere  out  of  the  golden  afternoon 
it  had  gathered.  Now  it  enclosed  her  softly,  a  thin, 
chill  cloud.  She  shivered,  and  leaned  more  heavily 
against  the  gate.  Of  course  it  was  merely  sympathy 
for  Delia.  What  else  could  it  be?  Her  own  life 
was  crowned,  sanctified,  by  the  glory  of  motherhood ! 
She  was  dissolved  in  it,  merged  into  it,  as  an  Eastern 
Yogi  enters  his  golden  lotos  reverie. 

From  out  of  the  impalpable  mist  the  remembered 
echoes  of  nearer  and  grosser  voices  came.  Her 


i4  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

friends  and  neighbors,  many  of  them,  as  she  knew, 
most  tender  in  their  usual  thoughts  of  her,  had  been 
saying  that  she  had  not  taken  the  wisest  course  with 
her  daughters,  that  she  was  "spoiling"  them.  Mrs. 
Rogers,  the  most  outspoken  of  all,  had  asserted  to 
Ciceley's  face  that  unselfishness,  carried  to  extremes, 
might  become  a  form  of  self-indulgence.  Old  Mammy 
Nycie  was  relentless  in  criticism.  "You  gits  no 
thanks  fum  chillun  by  lettin'  'em  tromple  you  in 
dedust!" 

Always  before  she  had  been  able  to  smile  at  the 
well-meant  admonitions  and,  with  little  effort,  keep 
the  memory  of  them  at  bay.  Old  Mrs.  Rogers  was 
childless.  Mammy's  concern  was  evidently  a  mere 
exaggeration  of  devotion  to  her  first  nursling,  — 
Ciceley  herself.  What  could  these  two,  or,  in  fact, 
any  of  the  other  carpers  know  of  the  peculiar,  wonder 
ful,  engrossing  love  that  bound  a  widow  to  her 
fatherless  children? 

But  what,  on  the  other  hand,  if  there  should  be 
some  acid  touch  of  truth  in  what  was  said  ?  Lucille, 
especially  of  late,  had  seemed  at  times  to  ignore  her. 
When  she  did  speak,  it  was  invariably  upon  some 
slight,  domestic  matter  in  which  she  demanded 
service.  Lucille  had  always  been  a  difficult  child 
to  understand.  Perhaps  it  was  only  natural  that 
as  she  reached  young  womanhood  the  strangeness 
and  reserve  should  deepen.  Her  very  beauty, 
which  in  the  eyes  of  others  than  the  worshipping 
mother  had  become  practically  flawless,  had  the  effect 
of  withdrawing  her  from  common  interests. 

And  the  other  one,  little  Sylvia,  —  that  thing  of 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  15 

perfume,  laughter,  blowing  tendrils,  dimples,  and 
childish  sweetness,  —  was  the  little  one  entirely 
unchanged  ? 

Here  the  stab  of  pain  was  a  thing  so  tangible  that 
Ciceley  uttered  a  cry,  and  pressed  both  hands  against 
her  heart,  where  the  stab  was  planted.  This  was  a 
possibility  that  she  was  literally  unable  to  meet. 
She  was  one  who  reasoned,  not  with  her  intellect, 
but  with  her  emotions. 

There  was  an  instant  of  fluttering  inner  protest, 
then,  with  the  instinct  of  a  mother-bird  instantly 
rebuilding  a  demolished  nest,  her  thoughts  flew  here 
and  there,  picking  up  shreds  of  excuse  for  Sylvia. 
She  was  too  young  to  realize  that  sometimes  she  was 
just  a  little  inconsiderate.  Every  day  she  came, 
apparently,  more  definitely  under  the  influence  of 
her  sister.  After  all,  Lucille  was  the  problem.  If 
only  Lucille  — 

But  this  twig  would  not  carry.  Over  its  broken 
ends  the  mother-bird  stood  still.  For  the  moment, 
even  the  incentive  to  rebuild  was  checked. 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide,  as  one  emerging  from 
an  unhappy  dream,  and,  as  if  in  search  of  some  defi 
nite,  external  hope,  looked  slowly  about.  Near  her, 
and  as  far  as  her  senses  could  reach,  was  unbroken 
green  silence.  The  hedge  tree-tops  that  nearly  met 
above  her  head  were  as  motionless  as  the  old  brick 
pillars.  From  somewhere  among  the  crowding  stems 
near  the  earth,  a  wood  thrush  fluted  introspectively. 
The  soft,  monotonous,  minor  notes  touched  her  as 
a  soft  hand  brushes  the  strings  of  a  harp.  She  caught 
her  underlip  between  her  teeth,  to  check  a  rush  of 


16  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

tears.  And,  yet,  as  she  told  herself  doggedly,  she, 
of  all  people,  had  little  cause  for  tears. 

Through  the  glimmer  she  felt,  rather  than  saw,  a 
little  flicker  of  visible  life  at  her  elbow.  On  one  of 
the  horizontal  bars  of  the  gate,  a  tiny  green  lizard, 
already  beginning  to  turn  brown  from  contact  with 
the  unpainted  wood,  had  started  out  of  the  jungle 
toward  her.  As  she  looked,  it  came  to  an  apprehen 
sive  pause,  thought  better  of  it,  and  then  deliberately 
regarding  her  out  of  its  diamond  slits  of  eyes,  threw 
back  its  chinless  head,  and  from  the  place  where  a 
chin  belongs,  produced,  as  by  necromancy,  a  shining 
half-circle  of  crimson  tissue. 

At  sight  of  the  absurd  little  creature,  something  in 
Ciceley  suddenly  relaxed.  She  liked  all  lizards,  not 
only  because  of  their  useful  habit  of  eating  insects, 
but  for  themselves.  She  recalled  now,  with  a  smile, 
how  one  day  many,  many  years  ago,  little  Sylvia, 
then  a  mere  baby,  after  witnessing  such  a  perform 
ance  had  hurried  back  to  the  house  and,  catching  up 
a  beloved,  small  gray  kitten,  conjured,  lispingly, 
"Puthy,  puthy,  show  me  your  blanket  out!" 

Still  smiling,  she  held  out  an  ingratiating  forefinger. 
The  tip  of  it  was  peppered  with  needle-pricks.  To 
one  of  them  a  small  clot  of  blood  still  adhered,  for 
Miss  Delia  had  called  her  down-stairs  from  the  sewing- 
room.  The  lizard  was  forgotten.  Ciceley's  one 
thought  now  was  of  the  unfinished  party  dre^ss, 
promised  to  Lucille  for  that  very  evening.  "How 
stupid  I  am.  How  could  I  have  forgotten,"  she 
murmured,  and,  without  a  backward  glance,  turned 
and  fled  in  the  direction  of  her  sewing-machine. 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  17 

The  lizard,  thus  abandoned,  swallowed  his  miracle 
in  a  series  of  indignant  gulps,  and  having  by  this  time 
become  exactly  the  colorless  color  of  the  weather- 
beaten  oak,  flattened  himself  luxuriously  upon  it  for 
a  sun  bath. 


CHAPTER  TWO 
COLONEL  JIM 

IN  all  residence  communities  of  long  standing,  there 
obtains  a  hint  of  the  primitive  and  tribal,  demon 
strated  by  the  tacit  acceptance  of  a  chief,  a  sort  of 
modern  "ealdorman",  in  other  words,  a  leading 
citizen.  There  is  invariably  a  Big  House,  bigger  than 
all  others,  and  in  it  a  man  or  woman  who  remains  in 
the  foreground  of  the  general  mind. 

On  Richmond  Hill  this  dominant  being,  though  he 
himself  would  have  been  the  last  to  admit  it,  was 
James  Roy,  universally  called  "Colonel  Jim."  He 
was  sole  dweller  in  the  enormous  mansion  originally 
known  as  "Roycroft",  but  since  termed  by  its  soli 
tary  inhabitant,  "Stag  Harbor."  Architecturally 
it  was  the  Hill's  most  notable  relic  of  antebellum 
splendor,  with  a  row  of  lofty,  fluted  columns  support 
ing  so  massive  a  pediment  that  one  was  vaguely 
reminded  of  the  Parthenon. 

The  driveway,  exactly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length, 
was  an  avenue  of  spreading  live  oaks,  set,  at  the  time 
of  planting,  more  than  two  hundred  feet  apart. 
Under  the  oaks,  well  forward,  ran  continuous  lines  of 
azalea  bushes.  No  pruning  shears  had  ever  touched 

18 


THE    STIRRUP   LATCH  19 

them.  The  upper  branches,  commingling,  sprang 
to  a  height  of  at  least  fifteen  feet,  while  at  the  border 
ing  sides,  as  if  in  recognition  of  their  office,  they  had 
maintained  two  parallel  lines  of  verdant  rectitude. 
Being  by  nature  lovers  of  shade,  they  continued  to 
flourish,  even  though  all  other  forms  of  undergrowth 
had  gradually  disappeared. 

Above  them  the  live  oaks  made  a  leafy  tunnel, 
suffused  with  chill,  green  light;  and  in  the  early 
spring,  just  when  Ciceley's  yellow  jessamines  were 
throwing  their  golden  noose,  Colonel  Jim's  azaleas 
gave  forth  a  cry  of  answering  rapture.  They  were 
all  of  one  color,  the  deep,  pulsating  rose  of  a  water 
melon's  heart,  freshly  cut. 

In  blossom  time  "town"  picnics  were  an  everyday 
occurrence.  To  them  the  Colonel  threw  wide,  not 
only  his  gates,  but  literally  all  the  doors  of  his  great, 
empty  home,  delighting  to  hear  within  the  echo  of 
young  voices  and  the  laughter  of  children.  The 
show-room  of  the  place  was  a  semicircular  ballroom 
jutting  out  at  the  back,  just  where  the  Hill  be 
gan  its  long  slope  southward  to  the  edge  of  Rag 
Swamp.  This  province,  as  its  name  implies,  was 
a  dismal  and  mysterious  one,  given  over  to  mud, 
tiny  lagoons,  mosquitoes,  and,  presumably,  to  alli 
gators. 

No  one,  not  even  the  splendid  old  Englishman  who 
had  been  Jim's  father,  knew  exactly  how  many 
acres  rightfully  belonged  to  him.  The  frontal  boun 
dary  of  Stag  Harbor,  with  its  huge  iron  entrance 
gate,  and  the  little  English  lodge  set  cunningly 
within  it,  just  to  the  left,  was  clearly  enough  defined. 


20  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

Past  it  ran  the  main  road  leading  out  from  town. 
This,  lifting  over  the  apex  of  the  Hill,  lost  itself  in 
a  vague,  increasingly  distant  territory  of  red  clay 
and  pine  "timberlands."  This  road,  paved  to  a 
dazzling  whiteness  with  crushed  shell,  had  once 
known  only  the  rhythmic  beat  of  the  hoofs  of  high- 
stepping  horses.  Now  it  was  desecrated  by  a  clang 
ing  tramway. 

The  right  border  of  Stag  Harbor  was  as  definitely 
if  not  as  noisily  conserved  by  a  second  thoroughfare, 
a  " county"  road,  branching  at  right  angles  to  the 
car  tracks. 

To  the  left,  somewhere  among  crowding  pine- 
trunks,  there  was  known  to  be  a  cheaply  constructed 
wire  fence  erected,  under  protest,  by  Colonel  Jim, 
through  the  menace  of  a  newly  arrived  "Land  Pro 
moting  Company." 

This  energetic  organization,  the  first  of  the  sort 
to  reach  the  quiet  Southern  town,  had  suddenly 
appeared  from  nowhere.  Rumor  told  of  Western 
millions  backing  it.  Showy  offices  were  opened  on 
the  main  business  street,  and  for  a  while  the  air 
resounded  to  alarming  prophecies  of  a  boom. 

Not  content  with  distracting  an  entire  city,  the 
" hustlers",  as  they  termed  themselves,  cast  malev 
olent  eyes  of  progress  upon  the  sacred  "Hill."  Im 
passioned  pamphlets  declared  that  within  a  year  this 
"salubrious  residence  district"  would  see  itself  sub 
divided  into  small  building  lots.  The  car-fare  from 
town  was  to  be  reduced  from  ten  to  five  cents,  thus 
allowing  the  working  classes  access  to  a  more  favored 
locality. 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  21 

Sprightly  young  civil  engineers,  conversing  with 
one  another  in  a  queer,  nasal  dialect  in  which  the  chief 
letter  appeared  to  be  "r",  set  up  their  tripods,  and 
trailed  long  reels  of  metal  tape  through  the  outraged 
forests.  Old  court-house  records  were  unearthed,  and 
property  rights,  which  until  now  had  seemed  to  their 
owners  as  secure  as  their  personal  skins,  were  openly 
attacked. 

Colonel  Jim,  very  red  as  to  face  and  inflated  as  to 
diaphragm,  had  been  forced  to  listen  while  a  glib 
youth  in  a  checked  waistcoat  pointed  out  the  fact 
that  his  western  boundary  line  was  in  jeopardy,  and 
that  the  one  way  in  which  his  interests  could  be 
protected  was  by  cooperating  with  the  Company  and 
putting  up  a  fence. 

At  first  the  Hill  was  aghast.  It  shuddered  to  its 
aristocratic  marrow  at  the  very  thought  of  these  vulgar 
iconoclasts.  Several  indignation  meetings  were  held. 
Their  first  triumph  was  in  a  printed  announcement 
from  the  president  of  the  Tramway  Company  that 
the  fare  should  not  be  reduced.  There  was  nothing 
the  Hill  wished  less  than  to  be  arbitrarily  "promoted." 

After  the  initial  tremor,  it  began  slowly,  but  with 
increasing  satisfaction,  to  realize  that  no  further 
active  opposition  was  needed.  All  it  had  to  do  was 
to  wait.  Since  this  negative  process  was  already 
habitual,  the  Hill  drew  a  long  sigh,  folded  its  hands 
in  its  shabby  silken  lap,  and  —  waited. 

Little  by  little  the  clamor  of  progress  died  away. 
Promoters  and  civil  engineers  blew  from  their  stalks, 
like  the  filaments  from  seeding  dandelions.  The 
Colonel's  cheap  wire  fence,  now  sagging  mournfully 


22  THE  STIRRUP   LATCH 

between  ill-planted  jumper  posts,  served  as  a  trellis 
for  yellow  jessamines,  and  the  bright,  thorny  ever 
green  of  the  wild  Cherokee  rose. 

This  had  all  happened  ten  years  before.  Several 
other  syndicates  had  ravaged  the  little  town,  but 
none  of  them  had  ventured  to  the  Hill. 

Being  thus  legally  bounded  at  three  points  of  the 
compass,  Stag  Harbor  still  possessed,  toward  the 
south,  an  indeterminate  region  leading  down  a  long, 
sun-warmed  slope  to  the  very  edge  of  the  swamp. 
The  fact  that  no  promoter,  however  zealous,  had  ever 
suggested  the  pacing  off  of  its  oozy  floor,  endeared  it 
to  Jim  anew.  Its  flat  front,  made  up  of  water-fed 
trees  all  of  one  height,  —  cypress,  palmetto,  bays, 
and  blue  gums,  —  became  to  him  a  wall  that  shut  out 
the  horrors  of  Yankee  enterprise.  The  long  gray- 
beard  moss  among  the  branches  waved  a  sort  of 
mournful  warning.  Jim  felt  that  he  loved  even  the 
water  moccasin  and  legendary  alligators  for  their 
part  in  keeping  the  intruder  away. 

Besides  Stag  Harbor,  Jim  had  received  other  in 
heritances.  Down  in  the  town,  which  was  slowly 
growing  in  spite  of  all  efforts  of  the  older  citizens  to 
prevent,  he  had  docks,  and  stores,  and  a  few  dwellings. 
Also  had  come  to  him  a  cotton  business,  far  gone  in 
decrepitude. 

For  the  rental-paying  property  he  was  openly  glad. 
An  agent  relieved  him  of  all  the  disagreeable  exigen 
cies.  Had  Colonel  Jim  elected  to  be  his  own  manager, 
it  is  safe  to  assert  that  his  tenants  would  have  re 
mained  in  possession,  irrespective  of  their  ability  to 
pay  monthly  dues,  for  Jim  was  essentially  of  that 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  23 

order  of  social  enemy  known  as  "  kind-hearted."  He 
was  the  sort  of  man  who  could  not  easily  say  no. 
However  true  this  lamentable  fact  with  regard  to 
others,  it  is  certain  that  in  his  personal  affairs  he 
could  use  the  negative  with  vigor.  After  a  few  days 
of  puzzled  bending  over  his  dead  father's  desk,  Jim 
suddenly  sprang  up,  shouted  aloud,  much  to  the  con 
sternation  of  his  two  clerks,  "Nothin'  doing !"  rushed 
across  the  street  to  the  Battle  House  bar,  and,  being 
thus  fortified,  sought  out  his  lawyer,  to  whom  he  gave 
peremptory  instructions  to  "sell  out  the  darned, 
moth-eaten  old  business  for  what  it  would  bring!" 

From  that  decisive  moment  onward,  Jim  pro 
claimed  himself  to  be  a  farmer.  What  it  was  he 
hoped  to  farm  on  the  arid  clay  and  sand  of  the  Stag 
Harbor  acres  neither  he  or  anyone  else  quite  knew. 
That  inspiration  was  to  come. 

At  that  time,  also,  the  title  of  "Colonel,"  which 
was  to  cling  to  him  through  the  latter  part  of  his  life, 
had  not  been  acquired.  The  Spanish  War,  and  his 
own  gallantry  therein,  had  yet  to  bestow  it.  He 
was  known  in  these  earlier  years,  as  simply  "Jim." 
Among  the  younger  generation  he  was  called  indis 
criminately  "Cousin"  or  "Uncle"  Jim,  with  little 
regard  to  actual  consanguinity.  He  was  one  of 
those  wholesome,  ozone-exuding  people,  whose  very 
presence  compels  the  softening  of  a  mere  baptismal 
or  hereditary  name.  Had  any  one  of  his  associates 
referred  to  him  as  "Mr.  James  Roy",  it  must  have 
been  by  way  of  an  immense  joke. 

But  there  was  another  reason  for  Jim's  great 
popularity.  Sentiment  is  rooted  deep  in  the  human 


24  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

heart,  and  the  old  saying  "All  the  world  loves  a 
lover"  is  a  poignant  phase  of  it.  Since  Jim's  boy 
hood,  his  devotion  to  Ciceley  Taliaferro  had  been 
unswerving  and  unconcealed.  That  it  had  proved 
hopeless  only  made  it  the  more  secure.  An  ideal, 
once  fixed,  has  already  achieved  immutability. 

During  the  days  of  their  very  happy  childhood, 
when  Jim  had  been  the  recognized  leader  among  the 
big  boys,  and  Ciceley  never  a  leader  of  anything,  but 
rather  a  shy,  dependent  follower  upon  bolder  spirits, 
she  had  been  singled  out  for  his  especial  charge.  No 
jeers,  nor  ridicule,  no  scornful  protests,  "Aw,  Jim, 
come  on !  Don't  stop  to  help  a  kid  over  the  fence !" 
had  the  slightest  influence  upon  him.  Whenever  a 
fence  or  a  tree  was  to  be  climbed,  little  Ciceley  was 
sure  to  find  Jim's  outstretched  hand.  That  the 
hand  was  invariably  dirty  made  no  difference  to 
either.  The  first  chinquepins  of  the  season  were 
always  hers.  Jim  knew  just  where  to  find  them. 
These  she  would  string  into  a  long  rosary,  terminating 
in  a  chinquepin  cross  formed  by  the  help  of  a  hairpin. 

Ciceley  loved  the  time  to  come  when  she  could 
fashion  and  wear  a  new  chinquepin  necklace.  She 
would  lift  the  cross,  and,  gazing  at  it,  feel  a  strange 
stirring  of  religious  sentiment.  She  almost  wished 
she  had  not  been  born  "  Piscerpalean  ",  to  which  creed 
nuns  were  an  abhorrence.  It  must  be  wonderful, 
thought  little  Ciceley,  to  be  a  cloistered  nun,  spend 
ing  one's  hours  in  a  religious  ecstasy. 
''But  always,  within  a  few  days  of  acquiring  the  new 
rosary,  the  beads,  one  by  one,  would  be  eaten.  Cice 
ley  loved  the  keen,  sweet  savor  of  the  nuts.  Besides, 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  25 

if  one  kept  them  too  long  on  the  string,  horrid  worms 
were  certain  to  appear.  So,  by  degrees,  the  necklet 
and  finally  the  cross  would  be  devoured,  and  for 
that  season  the  vague  longing  for  devotional  seclu 
sion  would  pass  away. 

As  Ciceley  grew  from  childhood  into  young  maiden 
hood,  there  came  upon  her,  in  Jim's  presence,  an 
unconquerable  shyness.  She  still  depended  upon 
him ;  still  received  at  his  hands  all  the  fresh  beauties 
of  the  forest ;  still  she  liked  him  to  be  near,  and  yet, 
at  his  approach,  she  shrank,  and  a  tremor  of  virginal 
fear  shook  her. 

Jim,  utterly  untroubled  by  psychic  fantasies, 
loved  the  wide,  startled  look  in  her  brown  eyes. 
Somehow  it  seemed  to  make  of  him  a  conqueror. 
Each  day  she  grew  more  lovely  and  more  desirable. 
Their  future  life  together  was,  for  him,  a  thing  pre 
ordained.  He  could  not  conceive  of  his  soul's  exist 
ence  as  apart  from  her. , 

Then,  early  in  one  summer,  Ciceley  being  just 
seventeen  and  recently  graduated  from  the  leading 
girls'  seminary  in  the  town,  Jim's  cousin,  Henry 
Bering,  also  fresh  from  school,  or  rather  "The  Uni 
versity",  where  for  two  years  of  absence  he  had  been 
understood  to  be  studying  law,  —  this  young  hero, 
dapper,  self-confident,  and  quite  obviously  superior, 
made  sudden  reentry  into  the  rose-jar  scented  par 
lors  of  the  Hill. 

Henry  focussed,  at  once,  in  his  exotic  person,  the 
social  interest  of  the  community.  All  the  women 
voted  him  approval :  the  men,  that  is  the  older  men, 
were  noticeably  reserved. 


26  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

The  boy  was  very  good-looking,  in  a  finished,  slim, 
blond  way.  His  mother  proudly  declared  him  to  be 
a  perfect  specimen  of  British  aristocracy.  His 
attire,  an  exaggeration  of  all  the  latest  male  fashions, 
would  have  convulsed  a  Broadway  vaudeville  audi 
ence,  but  on  Richmond  Hill,  where  the  very  term 
"vaudeville"  was  unknown,  the  appalling  ensemble 
was  accepted  without  question  as  "the  thing!" 

The  other  boys,  all  but  one,  instantly  essayed 
timid  semblance.  Scarlet  neckties  blossomed  on 
various  rose-embowered  verandahs;  and  cigarettes, 
heretofore  gallantly  dispensed  with  in  the  presence  of 
ladies,  rivalled,  in  their  fitful  glow,  the  antics  of 
summer  fireflies. 

Something  about  this  slavish  adaptation  infuriated 
Jim.  His  dull  anger  was  the  more  persistent  because 
of  his  inability  to  state,  even  to  himself,  the  exact 
cause  of  it.  In  all  crises  of  his  life,  beginning  with 
this  disastrous  summer,  it  was  Jim's  misfortune  to 
remain,  inarticulate.  Now,  with  his  very  spine 
bristling  at  sight  of  Henry's  swaggering  gait  and 
reverberating  garments,  he  found  no  outlet  except 
in  the  muttered  words,  "Sissy!  Dude,  and  darned 
fool!" 

Jim  too  was  blond ;  but  the  sun  and  wind  that  he 
loved  had  tanned  him  to  the  hue  of  his  native  clay 
hills.  His  mouse-colored  hair,  under  the  ministra 
tions  of  local  barbers,  had  a  fashion  of  sticking  out 
in  unexpected  points.  He  had  grown  too  rapidly, 
acquiring,  with  the  sudden  access  in  height,  that 
broad-shouldered,  long-armed  awkwardness  which 
develops  later  into  splendid  strength.  In  a  vague, 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  27 

boyish  way,  he  was  conscious  of  regarding  himself 
as  being  ugly,  but  this  fact  acquired  real  significance 
only  after  Henry's  return. 

This  hero,  having  enjoyed  an  interval  of  general 
homage,  languidly  bestirred  himself  to  more  personal 
aims.  There  was  nothing  concealed  about  Henry's 
mental  processes.  One  glorious  afternoon  when  the 
Hill  boys  were  congregated,  after  the  immemorial 
custom  of  rural  males,  at  the  village  store,  Henry 
quite  suddenly  announced  his  intention  of  "  looking 
over"  the  girls.  The  statement  provoked  an  out 
burst  of  admiring  laughter.  Henry  was  a  devil  and 
no  mistake !  Big  Jim  alone  went  a  murderous  red. 
He  opened  his  lips,  and,  finding  that  he  had  nothing 
to  say,  shut  them  to  a  livid,  twitching  bar  of  disap 
proval.  One  of  the  younger  boys,  catching  sight  of 
him,  foolishly  piped  up:  " You'd  better  keep  yo' 
hands  off  Sis  Taliaferro.  She's  Jim's  girl!" 

All  eyes  now  turned  to  him.  He  dared  not  meet 
them.  Lowering  his  head  between  quivering  shoul 
ders,  he  plunged  away  from  his  tormentors  in  the 
direction  of  home,  but  not  quickly  enough  to  escape 
Henry's  high- voiced  taunt.  "Jim!  Why,  old  Jim 
Roy  wouldn't  know  a  girl  from  his  grandmother!" 

At  a  candy-pulling  party  that  very  evening,  the 
admired  one,  with  serene  deliberation,  lifted  his 
perfumed  handkerchief,  and  being  assured,  by  a 
swift  comprehensive  glance,  that  Jim  was  watching, 
dropped  it  at  Ciceley's  feet. 

From  that  hideous  moment,  Jim  felt  he  was  lost, 
and  by  the  self-admission  inevitably  hastened  defeat. 
For  a  while,  with  the  instinct  of  fair  play  which  had 


28  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

always  been  a  characteristic,  he  tried  to  be  just,  to 
put  himself  in  his  cousin's  place.  After  all,  as  he 
told  himself,  it  was  inconceivable  that  Henry  or  any 
one  else  should  be  able  to  care  for  another  girl  while 
Ciceley  was  near. 

She  was  unbound,  unrestrained  as  to  choice.  He 
himself  had  never  made  love  to  her,  at  least  in  the 
way  that  Henry  evidently  conceived  it.  She  was 
still  so  young,  so  innocent,  so  childishly  immature. 
Before  the  wide  purity  of  her  look,  the  very  thought 
had  seemed  desecration,  and  yet  here  was  Henry 
not  only  seeking  her  out,  but  committing  the  blas 
phemy  of  stating  his  hopes  and  intentions  in  public. 

Perhaps  until  this  dreadful  awakening  Jim  had  not 
realized  how  completely  he  loved,  had  loved,  and 
always  must  love  her.  That  she  really  was  his  had 
been  taken  for  granted.  It  still  seemed  as  if  such  a 
bond,  though  unspoken,  must  be  liable  for  both. 

Then  one  day  at  a  picnic  near  the  old  Rogers's 
Mill,  a  favorite  spot  for  such  gatherings,  all  at  once, 
from  the  menacing  cloud  of  his  boyish  forebodings, 
the  lightning  of  certainty  struck  him  down. 

He  had  turned  from  the  others,  goaded  to  forest 
retreat  by  the  open  persistence  of  Henry.  One 
more  amorous  ogle,  with  the  response  of  Ciceley's 
pleased  laugh,  one  more  touch,  even  conventionalized 
by  the  game  they  were  playing,  of  Henry's  ringed 
hand  on  the  girl's,  Jim  felt  would  incite  him  to  murder. 

With  his  dog  at  his  heels,  he  had  followed  the  clear 
running  creek,  and  finally,  spent  with  his  anger, 
flung  himself  down  on  a  bank.  The  dog  promptly 
stretched  himself  near,  for  a  nap.  The  boy,  though 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  29 

most  wretchedly  alert  in  his  mind,  was  as  still.  Intent 
on  his  thoughts,  he  failed  to  hear  the  approach  of 
two  figures,  and  sent  his  startled  glance  upward  just 
in  time  to  see  their  lips  meet. 

With  a  groan,  his  head  went  to  earth.  He  shut 
his  eyes  tightly,  as  if  to  crush  out  the  vision.  He 
wished  that  the  waters  would  rise  and  submerge  him 
for  ever.  Now  he  pressed  his  hands  close  on  his  ears, 
and  lay  stark,  cursing  fate. 

When  he  ventured  again  to  look  up,  they  were 
gone.  He  was  never  to  know  whether  Henry  had  seen 
him.  After  this,  the  picnic  moved  on  without  Jim. 

At  home,  in  his  room,  frenzied  plans  were  in  prog 
ress.  He  was  roused  to  the  combat  at  last.  He 
would  fight  for  his  own.  If  Ciceley  really  loved 
Henry  —  and  she  must,  to  have  given  that  kiss  — 
his  own  hopes  were  already  ashes ;  and  yet,  from 
no  lips  but  Ciceley's  the  remorseless  and  final  "thumb 
down  ",  must  be  given. 

He  waited  to  find  her  alone.  This  befell  the  next 
day  in  her  garden.  She  had  always  delighted  in 
flowers :  and  from  childhood  had  been  given  a  small 
fertile  spot  where  she  planted,  and  sowed,  and  reaped 
at  her  will.  This  year,  for  some  reason  already 
grown  misty,  she  had  chosen  for  dominance  small 
clove  pinks.  It  was  midsummer  when  the  goaded 
and  reckless  boy  Jim  attempted  the  taking  of  hap 
piness  by  storm.  She  was  kneeling,  her  hand  on  a 
flower,  but  at  his  sudden  appearance,  she  sprang  to 
her  feet,  with  the  bloom  snapped  off  short.  For 
many  years  after,  Jim  would  turn  from  a  path  where 
a  clove  pink  was  growing. 


3o  THE    STIRRUP   LATCH 

Poor  Jim  had  no  finesse.  His  gestures  and  stam 
mering,  fierce  words  roused,  at  once,  all  her  latent 
defiance.  Yes,  she  loved  Henry,  she  told  him.  Her 
eyes  were  bright  with  excitement,  and  her  look  almost 
hard.  That  day  she  had  promised  to  marry  him, 
just  as  soon  as  it  could  be  arranged. 

Again  Jim,  like  some  wounded  animal,  sought  out 
the  still  forest.  His  blind,  stumbling  feet  led  him 
unconsciously  to  the  knoll  by  the  stream,  where  his 
death-blow  had  fallen. 

It  was  here,  hours  later,  that  a  friend  found  him 
out.  A  voice  low  and  compassionate  breathed  to 
the  half -hidden  ear,  "Jim,  Jim!  Dear  old  Jim. 
It's  your  chum,  Julia  Wickford.  It's  Jule." 


CHAPTER  THREE 

JULIA 

IF,  among  the  boys  of  his  generation,  Jim  Roy 
was  securely  dominant,  the  Hill  girls  had  possessed 
also  among  themselves  a  personal  leader. 

This  was  a  girl  of  Jim's  own  age,  a  cousin  to  Cice- 
ley,  Julia  Wickford,  familiarly  known  as  "Jule." 
Most  of  the  young  people  of  the  Hill  were  cousins, 
once,  twice,  or  thrice  removed.  That  a  line  of  de 
marcation  still  held  between  the  several  branches  of 
Taliaferros  and  Roys  was  looked  upon  as  something 
of  a  social  paradox. 

At  this  time  all  post-bellum  aristocrats  were 
wretchedly  poor.  It  would  have  argued  disloyalty 
to  the  "lost  cause"  had  their  condition  been  other 
wise.  But  even  with  them  there  were  degrees  of 
penury,  and  it  had  been  whispered  that  for  a  few 
years  the  Wickfords  had  entered  the  limbo  of  utter 
destitution. 

Stephen  Wickford,  though  a  bridegroom  of  but  a  few 
weeks,  had  been  among  the  first  to  enlist.  From  the 
disastrous  struggle  he  returned,  lacking  not  only  an 
arm,  but  all  hope,  incentive,  or  power  of  readjust 
ment.  Shortly  after  the  war  the  beautiful  Wickford 

31 


32  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

homestead  was  burned.  Its  owners  always  declared 
and  believed  this  final  tragedy  to  be  the  work  of  re 
vengeful  incendiary  negroes. 

A  few  unrelated  pieces  of  furniture  were  saved, 
and  conveyed  by  the  rescuers  into  the  detached 
kitchen  building  which  fortunately  had  stood  at 
quite  a  distance  from  the  main  residence.  Vaguely, 
like  ghosts  not  clearly  realized,  or  cloud-wraiths 
bending  toward  a  current  of  warm  air,  the  bewildered 
couple  drifted  in  the  wake  of  the  furniture,  and,  being 
neither  alive  nor  quite  yet  dead,  kept  up,  in  the  old 
brick  building,  a  sort  of  travesty  of  existence.  But 
for  the  tenderness  and  compassion  of  their  friends,  it 
is  certain  that  at  this  time  the  Wickfords  would  have 
starved  to  death. 

A  little  later  the  office  of  postmaster  to  the  small 
community  was  secured  for  Mr.  Wickford.  To  be 
more  accurate,  it  was  created  for  him.  He  took  it 
apathetically.  In  his  embittered  heart  what  he 
wanted  most  of  all  was  to  be  let  alone.  The  starving 
of  his  maimed  body  seemed,  in  his  eyes,  a  trivial 
addition  to  the  sum  of  already  accumulated  mis 
fortunes.  For  his  wife's  sake  he  meekly  undertook 
the  duties  of  his  new  position.  The  small  salary  it 
brought  proved  ample  for  their  diminished  needs. 

Then,  to  the  astonishment  and  delight  of  all,  a 
boy-child  somehow  found  his  way  into  their  arid 
lives.  That  patient,  uncomplaining  ghost,  the  mother, 
was  transformed  into  a  vital,  throbbing,  human 
being.  The  boy  became  her  idol,  her  elan  vital. 
From  his  rosy  warmth  she  drank,  as  from  a  spring, 
the  elixir  of  rejuvenation. 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  33 

When  two  years  afterward  a  girl  was  born,  there 
remained  little  for  her  but  the  husks  of  maternal 
ecstasy.  There  had  been  but  a  single  box  of  precious 
ointment,  and  it  was  squandered. 

As  the  two  children  grew,  Mrs.  Wickford,  abject 
before  the  idol  of  her  firstborn,  apparently  made  no 
effort  to  conceal  her  preference.  The  very  look  in 
her  eyes  when  feasting  upon  his  sturdy  comeliness 
changed  at  the  little  Julia's  approach  into  a  sort  of 
patient  kindness. 

Children,  of  course,  do  not  reason;  but  their 
hearts  have  antennae  more  sensitive  than  those  of 
any  night-moth.  Julia  learned  to  keep  to  herself. 
But  for  the  stereotyped  mother-duties  at  table  and 
at  bedtime,  she  made  no  demands.  She  played  alone 
in  the  white  sand  under  the  oak-trees,  fashioning  her 
self  dolls  from  short-stemmed  flowers,  and  fairy  furni 
ture  from  twigs,  the  plastic  red  clay,  leaves,  and  moss. 

Sometimes,  after  breakfast,  the  wistful  little  figure 
would  follow  Mr.  Wickford  to  the  gate  through 
which  it  passed  so  seldom.  One  morning  —  and  the 
daring  of  this  initial  venture  was  never  to  be  forgot 
ten  —  she  reached  up  and  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

''Daddy,  I  wish  you  would  take  me  with  you. 
It's  so  lonesome  here." 

"Lonesome !"  the  man  repeated,  in  vague  surprise. 
''Why?  —  Won't  your  brother  play  with  you?" 

"He  never  will,"  Julia  said  rather  breathlessly. 
"He  is  always  over  in  the  Stuart  lot  with  some  other 
boys  —  or  else  — 

The  words  were  choked  by  a  little  sob.  Some 
thing  in  the  man's  dulled  senses  stirred. 


34  THE    STIRRUP   LATCH 

"Mother—  "  she  began  again. 

"All  right  —  come  on  with  me,"  said  Wickford, 
hurrying  forward  as  if  to  escape  the  sight  of  the  up 
turned  face.  "I  reckon  your  mother  won't  care," 
he  added,  by  way  of  concession  to  the  higher  author 
ity. 

"Oh,  no.     Mother  won't  even  know  I'm  gone." 

An  instant  later,  with  the  old  gate  safely  closed, 
and  a  dew-sweet  world  spreading  before  her,  the  sober 
restraint  of  the  usual  was  tossed  aside  like  an  elf's 
brown  cloak.  She  darted  from  one  side  of  the  road 
to  the  other,  catching  up  sylvan  treasures,  only  to 
toss  them  aside  at  a  fresh  revelation.  Now  with 
outstretched,  empty  hands,  and  the  mane  of  her 
thick  no-colored  hair  streaming  flat  in  the  wind,  she 
would  rush  suddenly  forward  to  what  seemed,  in  her 
childish  eyes,  an  incredible  and  heart-catching  dis 
tance,  and  then,  wheeling,  fly  back  in  a  glorious  panic 
to  cling  to,  and  drag  upon,  the  hand  of  her  new-found 
friend,  her  Daddy. 

After  this,  as  a  matter  of  course,  she  went  with 
him.  Mrs.  Wickford  made  no  protest.  Julia  was 
still  too  young  to  be  of  assistance  about  the  house. 

The  small,  shabby,  post-office  building,  with  its 
meager  vestibule  and  the  one  pine-boarded  room 
where  Mr.  Wickford  sat,  tilted  back  in  a  kitchen 
chair,  perpetually  self-hypnotized  into  a  sort  of  de 
fensive  apathy,  became  the  child's  real  habitat. 

Her  alphabet  was  acquired  from  the  printed  labels 
on  newspapers.  Soon  she  had  advanced  to  a  sight- 
reading  of  various  letter  addresses.  It  was  a  day  of 
never-to-be-forgotten  pride  and  importance  when, 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  35 

unassisted,  she  was  allowed  to  reach  up  into  old  Mr. 
Warriner's  box,  extract  a  letter  and  a  pamphlet,  and 
somewhat  tremulously  thrust  them  toward  him 
through  the  small  oval  window  cut  with  miraculous 
precision  in  the  square  pane  of  unwashed  glass. 

The  old  man  started  in  surprise.  His  mail  was 
moving  toward  him  apparently  of  its  own  volition, 
for  Julia's  hand  and  arm  remained  hidden.  He 
crinkled  his  eyes  to  peer  through  the  window  to 
ward  that  level  where  he  was  accustomed  to  meet 
Mr.  Wickford's  somewhat  irresolute  gaze.  Nothing 
was  to  be  seen.  Then,  all  at  once  he  became  aware 
of  a  pair  of  steady,  childish  eyes,  wide  opened  and 
fixed  upon  his  own,  that  appeared  just  above  the 
level  of  the  small  wooden  shelf  within. 

"  God  bless  my  soul ! "  cried  old  Mr.  Warriner.  "If 
it  isn't  little  Jule  Wickford,  turned  postmistress!" 

He  took  his  letters  with  the  deep  bow  of  an  an 
cient  courtier,  and  thanked  the  child  gravely,  but 
as  he  turned  away  he  was  chuckling.  To  each 
chance-met  acquaintance  the  episode  was  retailed. 
Before  nightfall  the  entire  community  had  assured 
itself  that  "Wickford  had  a  mighty  smart  little 
girl."  "Shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised,"  avowed  one 
appreciative  listener,  "if  she  turned  out  to  be  worth 
all  the  rest  of  the  Wickfords  put  together.  That 
brother  of  hers  is  a  young  ruffian!" 

Now  daily  the  "smart  little  girl"  was  allowed  to 
pass  out  letters  through  the  magic  aperture.  It 
became  to  her  literally  the  casement  bearing  out 
upon  a  different  and  a  brighter  universe.  Smiles, 
jokes,  and  commendatory  remarks  came  to  her. 


36  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

Soon  she  felt  a  deep  and  childish  conviction  that  it 
was  her  special  window,  her  post-office,  her  Hill, 
and  above  all,  her  own  Daddy. 

Home  life  in  the  old  brick  kitchen  became  less 
and  less  of  a  reality.  She  ate  and  slept  there  with  as 
little  sense  of  belonging  as  a  young  business  man 
feels  toward  his  hall  bedroom  in  an  uncongenial 
boarding  house. 

During  the  long  pauses  between  the  delivery  of 
letters,  she  studied.  Old  Mr.  Warriner  brought  her 
a  battered  primer  that  had  belonged  to  his  daughter, 
now  a  married  woman  in  New  York.  Another  friend 
supplemented  the  gift  by  one  of  a  first  reader,  illus 
trated  with  old  English  woodcuts.  All  visitors  to 
the  post-office  were  eager  to  question  and  to  assist 
her.  Finally  the  lethargic  father  was  himself  aroused, 
and  in  a  more  gradual  way  the  little  Julia  began  to 
do  for  him  what  the  birth  of  a  son  had  done  for  Mrs. 
Wickford. 

But  tragedy  was  again  nearing  the  unconscious 
mother.  The  other  ladies  of  the  Hill  felt  an  in 
creasing  indignation  at  the  way  that  Julia,  how 
ever  intelligent  and  helpful  to  her  father,  was 
allowed  to  spend  her  days  away  from  home. 
Surely  if  Mr.  Wickford  needed  assistance,  it  was 
the  place  of  that  unruly  boy,  Stephen  Jr.,  now 
rapidly  becoming  the  terror  of  the  village,  to  stand 
beside  his  father. 

Popular  sentiment  reached  such  a  pitch  that  Mrs. 
Wickford  was  finally  "spoken  to  ",  at  which  the  faded 
woman,  usually  so  concessive,  flared  into  a  veritable 
shrew,  stating  in  no  gentle  words  that  she  was  able 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  37 

to  manage  her  own  household  and  would  thank  her 
neighbors  to  do  the  same. 

The  truth  is  that  by  this  time  young  Stephen  was 
utterly  beyond  her  control.  He  had  refused  to  go 
to  school,  and  the  suggestion  that  he  accompany  his 
father  to  the  post-office  would  have  been  met,  as 
Mrs.  Wickford  knew,  by  jeers  and  profanity. 

That,  from  the  first,  she  had  taken  the  wrong  course 
with  him,  even  her  besotted  heart  realized.  But  it 
was  too  late  now  to  change.  With  a  sense  of  bitter 
inward  as  well  as  outward  defiance,  she  continued 
to  subject  herself  to  the  caprices  of  her  tyrant,  losing 
no  opportunity  to  demonstrate  in  the  presence  of 
others  her  pride  and  belief  in  him. 

The  old  negroes  began  to  mutter  that  Mis'  Wick- 
ford  was  callin'  down  a  jedgment  on  herse'f  an'  dat 
onery  son  o'  hern ! 

Whatever  the  force  of  prophecy,  it  is  certain  that 
within  a  year  of  Julia's  establishment  as  her  father's 
colleague  the  boy  died.  It  was  a  short  illness,  last 
ing  but  three  days.  With  him,  though  her  unnamed 
malady  extended  over  as  many  months,  died  the  wan 
creature  who,  in  giving  him  life,  had  replenished  her 
own. 

Existence  in  the  little  post-office  went  on  almost 
tragically,  as  usual.  For  a  while  Julia  attempted  to 
keep  up,  unaided,  the  household  duties  also ;  but 
finding  that  the  double  work  interfered  too  much 
with  her  reading,  she  employed,  for  a  ridiculous  pit 
tance,  the  services  of  an  elderly  negress.  From  this 
time  onward  the  child's  real  intellectual  and  moral 
life  might  be  said  to  have  begun. 


38  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

When  little  Ciceley  Taliaferro  started  to  school  in 
town,  taking  her  place  in  the  threadbare  but  still 
aristocratic  establishment  known  as  the  "Misses 
Hallonquest's  Female  Seminary,"  and  Julia  was 
shown  the  immaculate  new  text-books,  the  elder 
girl  took  them  into  her  hands,  turning  them  over, 
staring  first  at  one  shining  cover  and  then  its  reverse 
as  if  doubting  the  evidence  of  her  own  eyesight.  It 
was  literally  the  first  time  she  had  seen  or  touched  a 
new  book.  Vaguely  she  had  believed  them  all  to 
be  either  battered  and  much  ruffled  at  the  corners,  or 
else  securely  armored  in  heavy  leather  bindings. 

Before  this  she  had,  of  course,  found  her  way  into 
all  the  remaining  Hill  libraries.  The  splendid  Wick- 
ford  collection  had  gone  down  into  ashes;  but  Mr. 
Warriner  held  his  long  rows  of  classics  unbroken,  and 
old  Mrs.  Bering,  whose  father  had  been  an  English 
archdeacon,  was  particularly  vain  of  her  inherited 
literary  stores.  She  never  by  any  chance  opened  one 
of  the  sacred  volumes  herself,  but  in  allowing  Julia 
access  to  them,  impressed  her  with  a  sense  of  being 
given  some  sort  of  posthumous  benediction.  It 
contained  an  appalling  array  of  "Dick's  Commen 
taries",  and  somber  series  of  the  discourses  of  Jeremy 
Taylor,  John  Donne,  and  other  noted  divines.  Of 
all  the  musty  hoard,  Julia,  in  those  earlier  days, 
found  but  two  which  came  to  be  a  part  of  her,  —  "Pil 
grim's  Progress"  and  a  realistically  illustrated  copy 
of  "Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs." 

The  one  great,  free,  and  vital  treasure  house  was 
in  the  low-beamed  library  of  Roy  croft.  The  elder 
Roy  was  still  a  great  reader.  He  alone  upon  the 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  39 

dwindling  Hill  had  been  known  to  purchase  a  few  new 
books  since  the  war.  Most  of  these,  to  Julia's  sub 
sequent  delight,  proved  to  be  novels.  On  his  open 
shelves  —  for  very  properly  he  disdained  the  coffin- 
like,  locked  doors  of  the  conventional  bookcase  — 
one  could  reach  up,  tilting  at  random  some  gold- 
lettered  tome,  certain  of  finding  a  new  joy.  Classics 
and  treatises  on  cricket,  imperishable  poems  and 
German  philosophy,  fat  books  of  history  and  Dickens' 
latest  novel  here  rubbed  friendly  shoulders. 

Under  the  stimulus  of  Julia's  ardor,  the  boy  Jim 
began  to  read.  Fenimore  Cooper  was  his  first  idol. 
Through  all  the  many  tales  Julia  followed  breath 
lessly,  and  for  a  while  the  two  friends  repeopled  for 
themselves  the  glades  and  dim  pine  forests  of  their 
native  Hill.  There  were  moments  of  shivering  de 
light  when  almost  they  saw,  standing  grim  and  re 
proachful  among  sylvan  shadows,  the  form  of  some 
noble  Red  Man.  Their  mode  of  greeting  was  a 
smothered  war  cry,  and  whole  bands  of  younger 
children  were  trained  in  the  mazes  of  the  death  dance. 
Julia's  very  vocabulary  became  Cooperian.  Old 
Mrs.  Rogers,  being  acquainted  with  this  latest  ex 
hibition  of  Julia  Wickford's  "queerness",  gave  a 
characteristic  sniff  and  remarked  that  if  the  poor 
motherless  girl  had  followed  her  advice  and  concen 
trated  her  reading  on  Mrs.  Sherwood's  excellent  tales, 
this  new  scandal  might  have  been  avoided. 

With  the  passing  of  the  Indians  came  early  English 
history,  of  which  the  favorite  book  was  "Froissart's 
Chronicles."  Mr.  Roy  possessed  of  this  a  tome  so 
venerable  that  each  page  held  the  yellow  stains  of  time, 


40  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

and  throughout  the  letter  "s"  continued  to  be  a  thrill 
ing  "f."  It  was  a  source  of  deep  regret  to  Julia  that 
neither  she  nor  Jim  had  an  "s"  to  their  name,  which 
might  have  been  so  transformed. 

Meanwhile  little  Ciceley,  attending  five  days  of 
each  week  her  Female  Seminary,  found  happiness  in 
the  acquisition  of  many  new  girl  friends,  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  a  Slough  of  Despond  in  the  necessity  of 
preparing  lessons.  All  studying  was  supposed  to  be 
done  at  home ;  the  use  of  a  schoolroom  was  merely 
for  parrot-like  recitations.  Arithmetic  was  her 
special  bane.  In  calling  upon  Julia  for  assistance,  it 
grew  to  be  a  regular  custom  that  the  elder  girl  should 
spend  each  "study"  evening  in  the  Taliaferro  home, 
equipping  her  timid  cousin  for  the  next  day's  tilt 
with  learning.  Even  at  the  time,  Julia  was  entirely 
conscious  of  the  advantage  to  herself.  She  was 
always  one  to  see  clearly,  not  only  for  others,  but  — 
what  is  far  rarer  —  for  herself  as  well.  In  her  grati 
tude  to  the  unconscious  Ciceley,  a  deep  and  tender 
regard  found  permanent  place  in  her  heart. 

Besides,  there  were  things  about  Ciceley  hard  to 
resist,  a  fact  which  the  growing  Jim  was  soon  to 
realize.  The  elder  ladies  referred  to  her  as  "that 
sweet  child."  There  was  no  one  on  the  Hill  who 
did  not  love  her. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  Ciceley's  graduation  from 
the  Misses  Hallonquest  that  Henry  Bering  returned. 
He  too  became  a  favorite  of  old  ladies.  They  called 
him  "a  nice  youth."  In  their  sentimental  hearts 
the  union  of  these  favored  ones  appeared  a  desirable, 
even  a  predestined  accomplishment. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  41 

But  Jim  Roy  read  no  more.  From  the  moment  of 
Henry's  open  challenge  and  the  dropping  of  his 
handkerchief  at  Ciceley's  feet,  Jim  changed  from  a 
genial,  rollicking  leader  into  a  sulking  cave-man.  No 
one  but  Julia  realized  how  deep  his  hurt.  She  went 
to  Ciceley.  "Can't  you  see,"  she  demanded,  her 
gray  eyes  black  with  the  intensity  of  her  pleading, 
"that  Jim  is  the  real  thing,  and  Henry  just  a  lot  of 
finishing  touches,  with  the  essential  man  left  out?" 

Ciceley  had  wept.  Her  tears  always  lay  in  a 
shallow  basin.  She  did  not  attempt  to  argue,  but 
between  the  childish  sobs,  Julia  caught  phrases,  "Oh, 
Jule,  how  can  you?  Jim  never  has  cared  for  me 
like  —  like  you  think.  Henry  isn't  just  finishing 
touches.  Everybody  but  you  thinks  he's  wonderful ! " 

"But  I  tell  you,  Sis,  Jim  does  care  for  you  as  I 
think,"  vehemently  insisted  the  other.  "I  know 
Jim.  He  is  made  up  of  you.  You're  his  core,  — 
his  medulla!"  Even  Julia  at  times  fell  before  the 
temptation  to  air  recent  knowledge.  "Do  you  feel 
sure,  this  soon,  that  you  like  Henry  better  than  Jim?" 

Ciceley  nodded,  still  sobbing,  at  which,  after  a 
quiver  of  something  related  to  scorn,  Julia  smiled. 

The  afternoon  following  the  picnic  Julia  sat  alone  in 
the  room  back  of  the  post-office  boxes.  She  was  bent 
in  absorption  over  some  papers  on  her  desk.  This 
useful  if  somewhat  cumbrous  article  of  furniture  had 
been  built  for  her  out  of  old  boxes  by  the  Hill  car 
penter,  "Buck"  Johnson.  She  wore  a  frown  of  con 
centration  ;  and  well  might  she  frown,  for  this  latest 
task  set  for  herself  was  no  less  than  the  mastery  of 
shorthand. 


42  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

For  nearly  a  year  past  the  girl  had  toiled  for  profi 
ciency  in  this  comparatively  lucrative  calling.  By 
its  means  she  had  determined  to  secure  a  fixed  and 
more  adequate  salary,  instead  of  the  fluctuating  pit 
tance  of  her  government  office.  Money  was  dread 
fully  needed. 

Being  now  definitely  the  breadwinner,  she  assumed, 
-  though  quite  conscious  of  the  Hill's  almost  fren 
zied  opposition  to  the  New  Woman  movement  then 
just  come  to  its  ears,  —  her  right  to  attempt  and 
receive,  in  hard  cash,  what  her  services  might  be  made 
to  command. 

The  first  open  step  in  her  venture  was  soon  to  be 
taken.  She  had  never  yet  entered  a  real  town  office. 
The  prospect  held  something  for  thrills.  She  could 
see  herself  passing  the  small,  gilded  sign,  "James 
Preston,  Attorney-at-Law ",  mounting  boldly  the 
shadowy  flight  of  uncarpeted  steps,  and  knocking, 
still  boldly,  no  matter  what  her  inner  tremors,  on 
the  door  with  the  same  gilded  name.  From  her 
reading  she  knew  that  all  lawyers  had  their  names  on 
a  misty  glass  door. 

Now  the  feminine  Julia  leaned  back.  There  was 
still  one  detail  to  be  settled.  What  clothes  should 
she  wear?  In  the  books,  the  brave  heroine  adven 
turing  for  employment  went  invariably  clad  in  dark 
blue,  with  white  collars  and  cuffs.  Her  only  blue 
coat-suit  was  shabby  and  much  out  of  date,  but  she 
thought,  with  a  lifting  of  hope,  of  some  old-fashioned 
collars  and  cuffs  that  had  belonged  to  her  mother, 
and  which,  after  mending  and  starching,  would  be 
quite  perfect  as  accessories. 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  43 

Into  the  smiling  prevision  crept  Ciceley  Talia- 
ferro.  Julia  started,  and  caught  herself  back  to  the 
present. 

"You  were  right,  Jule!"  the  girl  cried,  in  coming. 
"Poor  old  Jim  did  care,  just  as  you  said.  I  told 
him  that  Henry  and  I  were  engaged,  and  he  looked 
awful !  'Most  like  that  old  bull  when  he's  trying  to 
chase  us.  I  never  dreamed  Jim  could  get  mad ! 
When?"  she  gasped  out,  in  reply  to  the  other's 
sharp  question.  "Oh,  only  just  now  —  in  my 
garden.  He  made  me  pull  off  this  poor  pink  by 
the  head.  It's  a  shame,  too,"  she  murmured,  caress 
ing  the  stemless  flower.  "The  first  on  the  bush, 
and  so  sweet!" 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  that  the  pink  feels  its  tragedy," 
remarked  Julia  drily.  "You  have  told  Jim  Roy 
definitely  'No'?  You  are  certain  you  never  will 
change?  That  you  love  Henry  Bering?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  am  sure,"  answered  Ciceley, 
displaying  some  spirit  and  also  a  little  astonishment 
at  her  friend's  strange  emotion.  "I  have  promised! 
Besides,"  here  her  lovely  face  flushed,  and  she  broke 
into  school-girlish  giggles,  "over  there  by  the  mill  — 
yesterday,  on  the  picnic  —  Henry  kissed  me.  You 
know  that  I've  got  to  marry  him  after  he's  done 
that!" 

"Where  did  Jim  go  just  now  —  when  you  told 
him?" 

"Jim!"  echoed  the  other,  "Oh  — Jim!  I  don't 
know.  Somewhere,  with  Rover  following  him." 

When  finally  Ciceley  had  left,  Julia  sprang  to  her 
feet.  Her  papers  were  pushed,  anyhow,  to  the  back 


44  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

of  the  desk.  She  turned  the  old  key,  at  the  same  time 
her  left  hand  upheld  toward  her  hat  on  its  peg. 
A  glance  at  the  clock  showed  her  that  closing  time 
was  a  full  hour  off,  but  for  once  she  did  not  care.  Her 
course  through  the  woods  never  swerved.  She  had 
not  loved  Jim  all  her  life  to  be  baffled  by  physical 
hindrances. 

From  her  hour  with  Jim  she  came  back  very  slowly. 
All  the  youth,  all  the  hopes  of  her  girlhood  were 
drained  out  of  her  face.  She  recalled  few  of  his 
actual  phrases.  Only  one,  —  there  was  one,  —  had 
burned  deep  in  her  heart. 

''You  remember,  Jule,  in  those  Western  stories 
we  used  to  read  and  act  there  was  a  dog  called  a 
'one-man  dog'?" 

"Yes,  Jim,"  she  had  answered. 

"Well,  I  know  I'm  a  one-woman  man.  Sis  can 
marry  that  ninny.  She  could  marry  a  dozen  more 
like  him,  and  still  there  could  never  be  any  girl  in 
the  world  for  me,  except  Sis." 

Julia  went  to  Judge  Preston,  and  was  given  at  once 
a  position.  The  Hill  ladies,  led  by  old  Mrs.  Rogers 
and  cadenced  by  Miss  Delia  Turrentine,  set  up  a 
nine  days'  protestation.  Julia  Wickford,  always 
"queer",  had  finally  disgraced  herself,  and  with  it 
thrown  scorn  on  the  Hill.  A  girl  of  her  birth,  of  her 
present  connection,  of  a  lifetime  association  with 
them,  to  turn  to  a  clerk,  and  in  a  man's  office  at  that ! 
Even  the  Judge's  vague  and  protecting  relationship 
did  little  to  quiet  the  storm.  In  the  midst  of  it  Julia 
committed  a  still  greater  outrage.  The  old  Wickford 
kitchen  was  rented  to  negroes,  and  Julia,  seeking 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  45 

neither  counsel  nor  advice,  moved  with  her  father  to 
town.  The  Hill  ladies  admitted,  with  nods  of  gloomy 
satisfaction,  that  under  the  unfortunate  circumstances 
it  was  best  to  have  her  away. 

A  few  months  later  she  and  the  Judge  were  quietly 
married.  At  the  news  fresh  but  now  laudatory  clam 
ors  arose.  Julia  clearly  had  sacrificed  herself  for  her 
father ;  and,  strangely  enough,  the  proud  dames  who 
had  been  most  against  her  for  seeking  to  earn  her  own 
and  her  father's  living  by  work,  now  wept  with  delight 
at  this  evidence  of  filial  devotion.  In  a  mass  they 
went  into  the  town  to  leave  cards.  Julia,  in  her 
stately  and  beautifully  furnished  mansion,  received 
them  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  She  showed  them 
her  father's  neat  rooms,  his  study  and  private  bath. 
Mr.  Wickford's  pride  in  his  daughter's  latest  achieve 
ment  was  pathetically  obvious. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  a  son  lay  in  Julia  Preston's 
arms.  If  before  she  had  seemed  merely  contented, 
it  was  certain  that  now  she  knew  rapture. 

Meanwhile,  on  the  Hill  things  adjusted  themselves 
to  the  old  lines.  Whatever  Jim's  inner  desolation, 
he  became,  to  all  outer  appearances,  the  same  genial 
and  popular  boy.  He  avoided  neither  Ciceley  nor 
Henry,  whose  engagement  became  one  of  the  every 
day  facts.  They  were  not  to  be  married  immediately ; 
the  delay  on  one  side  was  because  of  Ciceley's  youth 
and  her  mother's  increasing  ill-health ;  on  the  other, 
as  Henry  grandiloquently  stated,  because  he  wished 
to  be  settled  in  business,  to  be  sure  he  could  earn  his 
own  living,  before  assuming  a  married  man's  burdens. 

At  Julia's  request,  he  was  taken  into  Judge  Pres- 


46  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

ton's  law  office.  The  admixture  of  friendship  and 
business,  always  a  precarious  benefice,  became  in  this 
instance  something  far  worse.  Not  only  was  Henry 
incapable,  but  so  lazy,  so  sure  of  his  own  superior 
attainments,  that  his  presence  became  a  scourge. 

Then  Ciceley's  mother  died.  Henry,  who  since  his 
hour  of  triumph  in  winning  her  from  Jim  had  been 
far  from  an  ardent  fiance,  now  openly  neglected  the 
grief -stricken  girl. 

At  this,  old  Mrs.  Bering,  who  had  grown  sincerely 
fond  of  Ciceley,  declaring  her  "one  of  those  yielding, 
domestic  girls  who  make  the  best  wives",  took  a 
hand  in  her  son's  tangled  affairs.  She  resented  his 
treatment  of  the  bereaved  child  and  the  comments 
she  knew  it  provoked.  Deeper  than  this,  thrust  deep 
in  her  proud  mother-heart,  was  the  fear,  grown  of 
late  to  black  knowledge,  that  Henry  both  gambled 
and  drank. 

With  the  fatuous  belief  of  such  mothers,  she  was 
sure  that  the  one  thing  to  curb  his  wild  tendencies,  to 
steady  him  once  and  for  all,  was  marriage.  Little 
Sis,  in  her  part  of  sacrificial  lamb,  was  given  no  chance 
of  escape.  One  bleak  autumn  day  in  the  parlor  of 
"Woodbine",  as  the  Bering  place  then  was  called, 
Ciceley  became  Henry  Bering's  wife. 

With  the  coming  of  her  first  child,  Lucille,  the 
young  mother,  feeling  the  whole  world  reborn  in  her 
personal  joy,  re-christened  the  home,  with  old  Mrs. 
Bering's  sanction,  with  the  name  Little  Sunshine.  A 
second  child,  also  a  girl,  was  born.  Buring  these 
years  Henry  had  not  made  advance,  either  in  the 
hoped-for  steadiness  or  in  his  capacity  for  earning. 


47 

But  Ciceley  was  one  who  never  questioned.  The 
late  hours  in  town,  explained  always  by  the  care 
lessly  flung  phrase,  "troublesome  business",  were 
accepted  in  childish  good  faith. 

But  the  mother  at  last  could  see  clearly.  When, 
in  the  fourth  year  of  her  son's  marriage,  an  attack  of 
grippe  brought  complications  which  were  shortly 
to  terminate  in  death,  it  was  rather  the  corrosion  of 
disappointment  than  the  actual  effect  of  disease, 
which  proved  fatal. 

This  fact  Ciceley,  of  course,  never  guessed.  She 
had  grown  deeply  to  love  and  respect  the  somewhat 
reserved  old  aristocrat,  and  her  loss  was  a  blighting 
renewal  of  all  she  had  suffered  in  losing  her  own 
mother. 

Mrs.  Bering's  will  left  the  homestead,  Little  Sun 
shine,  to  Ciceley  and  Ciceley's  children.  The  other 
few  pieces  of  property  and  some  bonds  out  at  excel 
lent  interest  were  given  to  Henry. 

Henry  opened  a  suite  of  shining  new  offices.  His 
name  was  painted  large,  in  gold  letters,  on  the  door. 
They  announced  him  not  only  a  lawyer,  but  a  broker, 
promoter,  transactor  of  mortagages,  stocks,  and 
bonds.  He  took  Ciceley  in  town  that  she  might 
gaze  on  the  splendor.  But  Ciceley,  behind  her 
black  veil,  wept  softly,  and  whispered  that  now  she 
hoped  he  would  be  with  her  oftener  in  the  evening. 

But  instead  of  prompt  home-comings,  Henry  re 
mained  away  whole  nights  at  a  time.  Now  his 
keen-eyed  old  mother  was  gone,  he  had  ceased  to 
offer  Ciceley  either  apology  or  excuse.  Others  knew 
that  in  a  few  months  he  had  run  through  all  the  cash 


48  THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 

left  him ;  and  of  what  landed  property  he  had  been 
possessed  nothing  remained  but  the  homestead, 
secure  by  its  title  to  Ciceley,  and  a  worthless  few 
acres  impinging  upon  a  negro  settlement  called,  ap 
propriately,  "Sand  Town." 

And  then,  one  golden  day,  when  the  air  was  so 
rilled  with  perfume  that  one  hardly  knew  whether  it 
was  bird  or  flower  that  sang,  Henry  Bering  was 
brought  home  dead.  It  was  due  to  a  sudden  heart 
collapse,  the  compassionate  old  family  doctor  told  her. 

He  lay  in  state,  in  the  long,  shadowy  parlor.  White 
flowers  rose  in  a  pyramid  about  him.  To  Ciceley 
the  rigid  white  face  was  more  beautiful  than  that  of 
any  carved  knight  on  an  old-world  sepulchre.  They 
placed  him  in  the  near-by  mausoleum  where  all  of 
the  exiled  Derings  slept,  and  Ciceley,  on  her  knees 
before  the  blinding  Power  that  gives  and  takes  away, 
consecrated  her  young  life  to  her  husband's  memory, 
to  impassioned  and  selfless  life-service  to  his  children. 

All  these  things  came  to  pass,  and  had  been  ac 
cepted,  but  no  whisper  did  the  widow  hear  of  the 
small  black  wound  in  her  husband's  breast,  or  the 
hand  of  self-cowardice  which  had  made  it. 

Quietly  Jim  took  upon  himself  the  care  of  his  dead 
cousin's  family.  He  called  himself  Henry's  executor, 
a  barren  term  which,  in  a  less  close-knit  community, 
would  surely  have  caused  heartless  gibes. 

Julia  was  often  with  Ciceley.  Some  months  of 
each  summer  she,  with  her  boy,  spent  at  Little  Sun 
shine,  alternating  between  the  Hill  and  the  town,  to 
which  the  Judge,  who  cared  little  for  country  living, 
stubbornly  clung. 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  49 

When  Julia's  boy,  Wickford,  was  eleven,  his 
father  died,  leaving  what  was  then  considered  in  the 
South  a  fair  fortune  to  his  "beloved  wife,  Julia  Wick- 
ford  Preston,  the  best  and  the  wisest  of  women." 
There  had  been  no  restrictions  and  only  one  personal 
request,  —  that  she  should  take  their  boy  to  England, 
there  to  receive  education  at  the  school  and  the  uni 
versity  still  dear  to  the  English  father's  heart. 
1  The  futile  existence  of  old  Mr.  Wickford  had 
come  to  a  peaceful  end  some  years  before,  and  she 
had  no  excuse  for  deterring  the  wish  of  " Wick's" 
father.  So  it  came  about  that  Julia,  still  young, 
entirely  inexperienced  in  travel,  a  little  daunted  for 
perhaps  the  first  time  in  her  life  by  the  great,  new 
adventure,  clothed  from  head  to  the  arch  of  her  very 
beautiful  instep  in  the  "weeds"  which  her  part  of 
the  world  still  considered  essential,  took  her  boy's 
hand  in  her  own,  and  set  forth. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

COLONEL  JIM  RECEIVES  A  LETTER 

COMMUNITIES,  like  individuals,  conserve  in  direct 
ratio  to  their  isolation  the  advantage  of  flattering 
personal  convictions.  Where,  for  instance,  in  this 
temperate  zone  of  ours  can  be  found  a  locality  which 
does  not  claim  at  least  certain  phases  of  climatic  per 
fection  ?  Most  frequently  the  month  of  October  is 
arrogantly  held  forth  for  proof. 

At  any  rate,  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  Richmond 
Hill,  while  admitting  that  other  parts  of  the  world 
might  sometimes  know  the  meaning  of  fine  weather, 
retained  a  profound  assurance  that  nowhere  else  did 
this  "  season  of  mist  and  mellow  fruitfulness  "  material 
ize  in  so  personal,  so  fragrant,  and  so  loving  a  spirit 
of  benediction. 

On  a  certain  morning,  early  in  this  month  of  gold, 
Jim  Roy,  now  a  middle-aged  bachelor,  and  long  since 
established  in  the  community  as  "  Colonel  Jim ", 
stepping  out  upon  his  wide  verandah  into  an  aura  of 
early  sunshine,  might  well  have  been  pardoned  his 
involuntary  thrill  of  pride.  The  long  avenue  of 
live  oaks,  stretching  to  a  huge  front  entrance  gate  so 

so 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  51 

distant  that  it  had  the  look  of  a  fairy  stile,  had  in 
creased  in  growth  until  now  he  peered  along  what 
seemed  a  concrete  arch  of  green.  Whole  families  of 
subway  trains  could  have  rushed,  side  by  side,  under 
its  muffled  roof.  Armies  could  have  marched  there, 
and  their  elbows  scarcely  brushed  the  azalea  bushes 
fringing  the  distant  borders.  It  lay  now  wide  and 
cool  and  empty  as  a  forsaken  church.  From  the  east 
the  sun  thrust  in  great  quivering  columns  of  pink 
light.  Just  where  one  fell,  spreading  a  pool  of  radi 
ance,  a  wild  rabbit,  dashing  in  from  the  undergrowth, 
paused  and  deliberately  sat  upright,  his  pointed  ears 
like  the  petals  of  an  orchid. 

At  this  vision,  old  Rover  —  Stag  Harbor  had  always 
maintained  a  succession  of  Rovers  —  gave  a  single  in 
dignant  yelp,  and  hurled  himself  down  the  steps. 
He  might  as  well  have  chased  a  sunbeam. 

His  master,  descending  with  less  precipitancy, 
paused  to  take  in  a  long  breath  of  green-filtered  air ; 
and  afterward,  turning  sharply  to  the  left,  made  his 
way  through  shrubbery  dripping  with  morning  wet, 
and  emerged  at  the  rim  of  a  great  clearing.  All  about 
it  stood  the  thick  pine  growth  of  the  original  forest, 
trees  dark  and  slender,  the  cloud-shaped  crests 
ranged  as  immovably  as  hill  tops  against  the  clear 
morning  sky. 

On  the  flat,  open  space  with  its  slight  Southern 
slope,  appeared  row  after  row  of  symmetrically  planted 
trees,  shrubs,  rather,  for  no  central  stems  were 
visible,  —  low,  crouching  bushes  of  compact,  ever 
green  foliage,  polished  and  deep  and  vital  in  hue  as  the 
leaves  of  ivy,  newly  drenched.  Each  was  self-rounded 


52  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

and  humped  to  an  almost  humorous  similitude, 
and  each  being  equi-distant  from  its  neighbors,  the 
area  had  the  mathematical  look  of  a  checkerboard 
set  with  gigantic  green  gumdrops. 

Not  in  idle  boasting  had  Colonel  Jim  announced  him 
self  to  be  a  farmer.  He  had  found  a  thing  to  do  with 
his  presumably  barren  lands.  Here  before  him  grew 
and  flourished  the  first  Satsuma  orange  grove  known 
to  that  part  of  the  world.  Already  it  was  famous. 

At  all  seasons  the  grove  was  beautiful.  In  early 
spring  each  leafy  igloo  whitened  under  a  snow  of 
blossoms.  The  scent  of  them  hung  heavy  in  the  air 
for  miles  around.  Almost,  it  would  seem,  the  mocking 
birds  must  burst  into  a  wedding  march.  This  was 
the  time  at  which  the  young  people  loved  to  visit  it, 
coming  in  pairs,  strolling  silently  with  covert,  shy 
side-looks,  or  else  romping  among  the  fragrant  hum 
mocks,  with  outbursts  of  giggling  and  shrill  laughter, 
according  to  their  kind. 

Its  exhibition  period,  so  to  speak,  was  in  No 
vember,  when  the  long-ladened  branches  poured 
to  the  very  sands  a  cataract  of  golden  fruit.  But  to 
the  owner,  who  now  stood  literally  "loving  it"  with 
kind,  blue  eyes,  the  present  phase  of  quiet,  untheatri- 
cal,  green  bearing,  was  the  most  touching  and  beautiful 
of  all.  There  was  something  so  ''darned  plucky" 
about  the  staggering  little  trees.  How  dared  they 
offer  him  such  bounty?  Not  a  slender  limb  was  left 
unstrained.  Each  sagged  to  the  utmost  limit  of 
resilience.  Many  were  propped  up  from  beneath,  on 
stakes,  but  even  with  this  aid,  the  thick-set  twigs 
dragged  cruelly. 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  53 

From  one  to  another  overloaded  growth  he  went, 
often  reaching  a  hand  out  in  instinctive  encourage 
ment.  In  his  heart  he  was  thankful  for  them  that 
harvest  time  was  now  so  near.  Only  a  few  more 
weeks,  and  the  gold  of  their  branches  was,  by  the  com 
monplace  magic  of  demand  and  supply,  to  be  trans 
muted  into  the  more  durable  gold  of  national  currency. 
Jim,  somewhat  to  his  own  astonishment,  had  become 
wealthy.  Externally,  at  least,  he  was  in  every  way  a 
properous  and  most  fortunate  man.  Of  his  long, 
lonely  hours  in  the  vast  apartments  of  Stag  Harbor 
he  complained  to  none,  not  even  to  himself.  The 
great  house,  kept  now  in  a  state  of  meticulous  repair, 
was  more  than  ever  the  "show  place"  of  Richmond 
Hill.  Jim  used  it  as  casually  as  an  Indian  his  small 
peaked  tent. 

His  real  life  was  lived  either  out  in  the  orange  grove, 
or  "over  to  Sis's",  as  he  habitually  referred  to  Little 
Sunshine.  Here  were  kept  two  chairs,  one  of  'oak  with 
a  split  hickory  bottom,  that  had  its  nook  on  the 
verandah,  and  the  other  a  huge  concave  of  worn 
leather  and  delightfully  responsive  springs,  just  at 
the  left  corner  of  Ciceley's  dining-room  fire.  Both 
were  known  preemptively  as  "Uncle  Jim's." 

As  a  transition  phase  of  these  alternating  existences 
might  be  mentioned  his  daily  visit  to  the  post-office, 
where  he  was  always  sure  of  finding  loitering  friends 
and  a  vociferous  welcome.  The  shabby  little  building 
over  which  Mr.  Wickford  and  his  "  smart  little  girl "  once 
held  sway  had  long  since  blown  down,  its  scattered 
boards  serving  literally  as  a  windfall  of  firewood  to 
the  negroes.  The  site  was  not  rebuilt.  Mr.  Bean, 


54  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

the  storekeeper,  after  some  desultory  handling  of  red 
tape,  had  persuaded  an  indulgent  government  to 
place  the  new  post-office  under  his  roof.  By  this 
astute  move  he  not  only  added  by  obvious  and  legiti 
mate  means  to  his  source  of  revenue,  but  more  subtly, 
with  wily  tentacles  that  clutched  the  skirts  of  distant 
villages,  established  "Bean's  Emporium"  as  the 
social  and  mercantile  focus  of  an  entire  countryside. 

Although  it  had  not  been  quite  six  o'clock  on  this 
particular  October  morning  when  the  Colonel  had 
sauntered  out  among  his  orange  trees,  the  clang  of 
Uncle  Snow's  great,  brazen,  breakfast  bell,  an  hour 
later,  broke  through  his  reverie  with  a  start  of  surprise. 
Surely  a  whole  hour  had  not  passed !  Uncle  Snow 
was  "shoving  up"  the  time  on  him.  With  a  boyish 
impulse  to  plague  the  old  man,  Jim  pretended  not  to 
hear. 

Uncle  Snow,  the  one  permanent  house-servant  at 
Stag  Harbor,  had  received  his  name  originally  by 
way  of  satire.  His  skin  was  of  that  dull  blue-black 
ness  which  indicates  the  purest  African  descent, 
and  in  youth  the  thick  woolly  head-covering  had  been 
an  answering  mass  of  soot.  Quite  early  it  had  begun 
to  gray,  and  then  became  as  white  as  the  cotton  bolls 
he  used  to  gather.  It  had  now  the  look  of  a  foaming 
lather  emerging  from  an  ebony  bowl.  All  the  children 
of  the  Hill  believed  that  Uncle  Snow  had  been  born 
with  white  hair. 

Again  the  bell  clamored.  Rover,  leaping  into  the 
air,  yelped  an  agonized  response.  Jim  gazed  inno 
cently  toward  the  sky. 

"You,  Marse  Jim,"  came  a  thin,   cracked  voice 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  55 

from  somewhere  in  the  direction  of  the  house,  "you 
know  you  heers  dat  bell.  De  angel  Gabrul  might  'a' 
heered  it !  Come  to  yo'  breakfus'  dis  minnit !" 

The  dog,  crouching  for  a  second  spring,  fixed  his 
brook-brown  eyes  on  the  upturned  face,  and  then  sud 
denly,  with  a  sound  of  tearing  cloth,  hurled  himself 
full  against  his  master's  waistcoat. 

"Get  down,  you  —  ydu  catapult!"  roared  Jim, 
beating  him  off.  "There's  my  last  button  gone !" 

"  Marse /f-z-w  /  " 

"All  right!  I'm  coming!  Between  you  and  this 
fool  dog  I  don't  dare  call  my  soul  my  own." 

Rover,  ecstatic  now,  and  callous  to  objurgation, 
led  the  way  in  a  squirming  crescent.  Each  moment 
his  eye  flashed  backward  to  see  whether  the  recal 
citrant  one  was  following. 

Jim  ate  his  meals  from  a  cloth  spread  across  one 
end  of  a  mahogany  table  that  would  have  seated 
twenty  guests.  Rover  took  his  usual  place  on  the 
floor,  well  within  reach  of  a  frequently  extended  hand 
of  benefice.  As  the  last  waffle  was  being  thus  dually 
devoured,  Jim  asked  of  the  hovering  Snow,  "Hands 
beginning  to  come  in  yet?" 

"Yassur.     Jes'  three  on  'em  to-day." 

"Is  Josh  one  of  'em?" 

"Yassur.  An'  Buck  Jones,  an'  dat  blue-gum  nigger, 
Tode  Cornstalk.  Sumhow  I  don't  hold  much  wid 
dat  Tode." 

"Oh,"  said  Jim  carelessly,  "  Comstock's  a  fool  all 
right,  but  he's  strong  as  an  ox." 

"He's  sassy,  he  is.  Ain't  got  no  respecterbul  word 
fer  nobody,  white  or  black,"  persisted  Uncle  Snow. 


56  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"He's  what  I  calls  a  dangerus  nigger  to  have  eround. 
Rover  don't  like  him  none  too  well,  needer,"  the  old 
man  added,  with  Machiavellian  craft. 

Jim's  face  sobered.  He  looked  down  at  Rover 
as  if  for  corroboration.  The  dog's  eyes  answered 
steadily.  His  shaggy  tail  swept  in  agitated  semi 
circles. 

"I  seen  him  kickin'  at  Rover.  He  'lowed  as  how  he 
wuz  gwinter  bust  his  slats." 

"Huh,"  said  Jim  thoughtfully.  "Well,  pay  him 
off  this  Saturday,  and  tell  him  we  won't  need  him  any 
more.  And,  Snow — " 

"Yassur." 

"You  see  to  it  that  he  doesn't  ever  get  a  job  on 
Miss  Ciceley's  place." 

"Yassur." 

"Reminds  me,"  said  Jim,  now  rising,  while  Rover, 
with  an  expression  of  resigned  disappointment,  pre 
pared  to  follow,  "I  promised  to  stroll  over  there  this 
morning  and  see  about  having  that  west  field  har 
rowed.  It's  plumb  eaten  up  with  pigweed." 

"Yassur,"  murmured  Snow,  suspiciously  demure. 

As  Jim  swung  out  of  the  room,  the  old  man  watched 
with  a  sort  of  somber  wistfulness  the  tall,  slouching 
figure.  Uncle  Snow,  no  less  than  Jim,  had  his  unful 
filled  romance.  For  more  years  than  the  "young 
folks"  could  remember,  he  and  Aunt  Nycie,  Ciceley's 
devoted  nurse,  had  been  "keepin'  company."  They 
longed  to  be  married,  to  possess  the  certainty  of  com 
radeship,  hand  in  hand,  down  the  gray  slope  of  later 
life.  There  was  nothing  to  withhold  them,  for  each 
was  free,  nothing  but  that  sense  of  loyalty,  of  deep 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  57 

devotion  to  a  charge,  which,  not  infrequently,  is 
found  among  the  older  generations  of  their  race. 
They  had  talked  it  over  placidly,  sitting  by  Aunt 
Nycie's  fire  of  winter  nights,  while  sweet  potatoes  and 
corn  pones  slowly  crusted  in  the  ashes ;  or  during  the 
summer  weather,  out  on  her  tiny  individual  "porch", 
over  which  the  Lady  Banksia  roses  foamed,  and  potted 
plants,  geranium,  "wandering  Jew",  or,  clove  pinks, 
set  each  in  a  rusty  tin,  sent  forth  shoots  more  lush 
and  beautiful  than  those  from  any  costly  jardiniere. 

From  time  immemorial,  or  so  it  seemed  to  the 
young  folks,  Uncle  Snow  had  gone  "co'tin"'  Aunt 
Nycie  on  Sunday  evenings.  Always  he  brought  a 
little  gift,  a  few  sticks  of  peppermint  candy,  a  ball  of 
"honey"  pop-corn  carefully  wrapped  in  its  pink 
tissue  coating,  or  sometimes  a  cheap  and  worthless 
trinket,  prized  by  these  simple  souls  in  direct  propor 
tion  to  its  utter  worthlessness. 

At  least  once  during  each  visit,  the  subject  so  near 
the  hearts  of  both  was  touched  upon. 

"I  jes'  kaint  leave  Marse  Jim  along  of  hissef' 
in  dat  bigjhouse  o'  hisn's,"  Uncle  Snow  would  say, 
generally  apropos  of  nothing. 

"An'  my  Miss  Ciceley  needs  her  mammy  more 
dan  ebber,  wid  dem  gals  o'  hern  growin'  up  into  young 
pelikims,  same  as  de  sign  ober  de  front  do'.  Dey 
would  tear  de  las'  pin-fedder  outer  my  baby's  breas', 
ef  dey  took  de  notion,"  Aunt  Nycie  would  respond. 

"Ef  only  Marse  Jim  an'  Miss  Ciceley  would  open 
dey  eyes  an'  see  each  odder,  an'  git  ma'a'ied,"  was 
Uncle  Snow's  invariable,  if  hopeless,  following  remark. 
Then  both  would  sigh,  and  gaze  deep  into  glowing 


58  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

coals,  wondering  in  loyal  dumbness  at  the  "contrari 
ness"  of  white  folks. 

Colonel  Jim,  on  his  way  to  Little  Sunshine  and  the 
pigweed,  stopped  in  at  Bean's  Emporium.  It  was 
an  act  of  habit  rather  than  definite  intention.  In 
approaching  the  integral  nook  which  held  the  post- 
office,  Jim's  footsteps  noticeably  lagged.  Of  recent 
years  his  mail  had  grown  to  be  distressingly  volumi 
nous.  The  reading  and  answering  of  business  letters 
was  the  one  hated  penalty  incurred  by  success.  Jim 
literally  shrank  from  the  sight  of  letters.  A  special 
largesse,  thrust  grinningly  at  him  through  the  window, 
had  been  known  to  incite  loud  outbursts  of  profanity. 
It  was  therefore  with  a  blenching  eye,  but  a  voice  of 
challenging  cordiality  that  he  asked,  "Anything  for 
me  this  mornin',  Mr.  Bean?" 

The  postmaster  and  general  proprietor  of  the  Em 
porium,  being  rubicund  both  as  to  face  and  hair  was 
known  inevitably  as  "Red  Bean." 

"Lots!"  encouraged  Bean,  and  proceeded  to  sort 
them  from  a  tottering  heap. 

"Good  Lord!"  moaned  Jim,  while  near-by  "box- 
warmers  ",  as  the  store  loafers  were  ignominiously 
termed,  rose  and  strolled  nearer. 

"There's  one  here  that  smells  mighty  sweet, 
Colonel,"  said  Mr.  Bean,  with  a  grin. 

"Quit  your  kiddin',"  growled  Jim.  "Nobody 
writes  to  me  but  citrus  men  and  fertilizers." 

"  There  ain't  no  fertilizer  on  this  billy-doo  ! "  de 
clared  Mr.  Bean,  his  enjoyment  deepening  with  the 
flush  on  Jim's  countenance. 

"Here,  you  fellows,"  cried  Jim,  flinging  his  arms  to 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  59 

right  and  left.  "Back  off  a  little  'til  I  see  who 
it  is." 

Instantly,  with  exaggerated  haste,  they  drew  away, 
flattening  themselves  against  the  narrow  confines 
of  the  wall.  On  each  weather-beaten  face  was  a  wide 
and  meaning  smile.  Four  pairs  of  twinkling  eyes 
focussed  on  the  pale-blue  tinted  missive. 

Jim,  who  knew  few  reserves,  cautiously  opened  it. 
It  had  many  pages,  closely  written  in  a  hand  unmis 
takably  feminine.  In  the  unfolding  a  perfume,  ex 
quisite  and  in  some  subtle  way  intellectual  rather  than 
sensuous,  crept  through  the  tense  air.  Nudges  of 
those  against  the  wall,  and  suggestive  clearings  of 
manly  throats,  ensued.  Jim,  sheepish  but  deter 
mined,  turned  hastily  to  the  last  page,  and  its  signa 
ture. 

"  By  the  Lord  Harry ! "  he  exclaimed,  almost  letting 
it  fall.  "  If  it  isn't  from  Jule  Wickford  ! " 

All  grins  ceased.  A  deep  interest  grew  in  eyes  that 
had  suddenly  lost  their  mischievous  twinkle. 

"Little  Jule  Wickford !"  breathed  one,  in  a  tone  of 
incredulity. 

"She's  Mrs.  Judge  Preston  now,"  amended  another, 
while  a  third  observed,  "That  boy  of  hers  must  be 
nearly  a  grown  man,  by  this  time." 

"He's  just  through  college,  —  that  English  one," 
corroborated  Jim,  his  eyes  darting  eagerly  among  the 
fluttering  pages.  "She's  bringing  him  home.  Says 
she  don't  want  him  to  be  cut  off  from  his  own  home  and 
people.  That's  just  like  Jule,  God  bless  her.  One 
of  the  finest  women  ever  made!" 

His  listeners,  supplemented  by  the  Red  Bean  who, 


60  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

being  a  comparative  newcomer,  had  never  so  much 
as  heard  the  name  of  Julia  Wickford,  enthusiastically 
seconded  the  encomium. 

"She's  in  New  York  now,"  read  Jim,  tossing  out 
scraps  of  information  much  as  he  did  bits  of  waffle 
to  his  dog.  "  She's  starting  south  almost  any  day. 
Don't  want  —  Gee ! "  He  paused,  and  a  look  of  con 
sternation  grew.  "She  says  for  me  not  to  tell  any 
body.  Wants  it  to  be  a  surprise;  and  here  I've 
bleated  out  the  whole  shebang ! " 

With  one  accord  his  audience  assured  him  that  the 
delightful  news  should  not  go  further ;  but  as  most  of 
the  group  were  married  men,  Jim  displayed  a  not 
unnatural  skepticism. 

"It's  Sis, — 'Mrs.  Bering,  —  that  she  wants  to 
surprise  most.  You-all  must  see  to  it  that  she 
doesn't  get  a  hint." 

All  nodded  violent  assent.  With  this  he  left 
them,  his  eyes  still  bent  upon  the  pages.  All  other 
letters  had  been  deposited,  unopened,  in  a  coat 
pocket. 

Under  the  wayside  shadows,  Jim  strolled  along, 
unconscious  of  direction.  The  scented  sheets  were 
carefully  placed  in  sequence,  and  were  now  given  an 
uninterrupted  perusal. 

DEAR  OLD  JIM, 

How  many  years  ?  Perhaps  it  is  wiser  not  to  count 
them !  And  now  I  am  coming  home.  The  boy  has 
finished  his  course  at  Oxford,  and  did  wonderfully 
well.  The  dear  Hill  people  are  going  to  think  him 
a  typical  English  "Johnnie",  I'm  afraid,  but  it  will 
not  take  them  long  to  rediscover  the  sound,  sweet 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  61 

kernel  of  the  boy  who  left  them,  only  because  of  his 
father's  wish.  I  am  so  proud  of  Wick !  I  think 
you  are  going  to  be  proud,  too.  In  the  very  thought 
of  being  home  again  among  "you-all",  I  feel  myself 
changing  back  into  a  girl.  I  want  my  coming  to  be 
a  surprise.  The  whole  lot  of  you  have  been  horrid 
about  not  writing.  This  is  going  to  be  a  sort  of  a 
merry  revenge.  I  am  specially  anxious  to  startle 
Ciceley.  Don't  you  dare  give  me  away !  I  am  only 
telling  you  because  I  felt  that  I  would  burst  if  I 
didn't.  Dear  little  Ciceley !  I  can  hardly  imagine 
her  with  two  daughters  nearly  grown.  In  the  nature 
of  things  she  must  have  changed.  That  lovely, 
bright  bronze  hair  of  hers  may  even  have  a  few  white 
threads.  Mine  is  quite  gray,  but,  since  it  never 
possessed  any  particular  color,  it  makes  little  differ 
ence  in  my  usual  neutral  appearance.  And  how  about 
Jim !  Well,  dear  old  friend,  no  matter  what  may 
have  happened  to  our  outsides,  I  feel  sure  that,  once 
back  among  you,  I  shall  be  just  a  happy  Hill  child. 
How  we  shall  live  again,  in  speech  and  memory, 
those  wonderful,  distant  days!  Is  old  Mrs.  Rogers 
still  alive  and  dominant?  And  how  is  Uncle 
Snow? 

For  another  page  she  went  on  asking  eager  ques 
tions,  then,  with  a  flash  of  common  sense  that  brought 
back  her  personality  with  startling  vividness,  dashed 
in: 

But  how  utterly  absurd  to  deluge  you  with  queries, 
when  there  is  no  time  for  you  to  answer,  and  when, 
thank  Heaven,  I  shall  soon  be  finding  out  the  millions 
of  things  I  want  to  know,  for  myself !  Be  sure  to 
keep  Sis  in  the  dark.  I  can  scarcely  wait  to  get  there. 


62  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

Until  that  joyous  moment  when  your  two  dear,  big, 
cordial  fists  are  in  my  own,  and  with  my  impatient 
lips  I  can  "ax  you  howdy"  I  am,  devotedly  always, 

JULE. 

Jim  drew  a  long,  long  breath,  slowly  folded  the 
letter,  and  stood  still.  A  queer  sensation  as  of  having 
been  bodily  lifted  and  set  down  in  a  vanished  environ 
ment  made  the  very  sunshine  unfamiliar.  A  dog 
brushed  against  his  knees,  whining  softly.  The  man 
stared  down.  Surely  it  was  the  same  Rover,  who, 
perhaps  an  hour  before,  had  barked  at  a  cow  which 
frightened  two  little  girls,  thin-legged  little  girls, 
named  Jule  and  Ciceley ! 

And  whose  was  this  deep  green  avenue  where  he  and 
Rover  had  come  to  a  pause  ?  The  trees  were  thicker, 
the  shade  more  dense  than  really  they  should  be. 
And  whose  the  white  pillared  mansion  at  the  far 
end? 

With  a  disgusted,  "  Shucks  !  What  has  Jule's  letter 
done  to  me  anyway?"  Jim  pulled  himself  together. 
:  Yet  the  fact  remained  that  it  was  without  personal 
volition  he  had  entered  his  own  gate,  and  proceeded 
half  way  toward  the  house.  His  intention,  until 
Jule's  letter  had  cast  its  spell,  was  to  visit  Little 
Sunshine.  The  better  part  of  the  morning  still 
remained,  and  yet  Jim  hesitated.  He  glanced  back 
ward,  over  a  broad  shoulder,  to  his  gate,  then  forward 
again,  to  where  steps  seemed  to  beckon  him.  Where 
he  stood  was  exactly  midway  between  the  two. 

"If  I  go  to  Sis  now,"  he  murmured  aloud,  "she'll 
be  sure  to  see  that  something's  the  matter,  and  before 
I  know  it,  she'll  guess  what.  Women  are  built  like 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  63 

that.  Reckon  I'd  better  wait  until  my  mind  gets  used 
to  keeping  a  secret  from  her."  With  which  sapient 
self-communication,  he  flung  up  his  chin,  and,  loudly 
encouraged  by  his  leaping  dog,  made  his  way  toward 
his  home. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

JIM  BREAKS  AN  OLD  PROMISE,  AND  MAKES  A  NEW 

ONE 

THE  afternoon  leaned  far  toward  the  sunset  hour 
before  Jim,  feeling  himself  at  last  a  safe  custodian 
of  Julia's  confidences,  ventured  to  set  forth  for  Little 
Sunshine. 

He  went  down  the  steps,  Rover,  as  usual,  close  at 
his  heels.  The  air  was  motionless.  A  blue  vapor 
dragged  across  the  wide  plain  which  held  the  dunes  of 
his  orange  trees,  changing  their  polished  green  surfaces 
into  knolls  of  inky  blackness.  Under  the  shadowing 
live  oaks  quivered  already  the  chill  of  coming  night. 
Somewhere  a  drowsy  and  contented  cricket  chipped 
off  silvery  flakes  of  sound. 

Once  through  his  gate  and  out  under  the  open  sky, 
the  scene,  by  contrast,  presented  an  almost  urban 
activity.  An  electric  tramcar  was  rushing  down  the 
Hill.  Rover,  to  whom  the  passing  of  each  car  was 
a  personal  challenge,  hurled  himself  into  pursuit.  A 
gruff  "  Come  here,  you  fool !  What  would  you  do  with 
the  blamed  thing  if  you  caught  it?"  drew  him  back, 
fawning  and  sheepish. 

Charcoal  and  "light- wood"  wagons,  emptied  now 
64 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  65 

of  their  primitive  commodities,  crept  wearily  up  the 
slope,  their  drivers  for  the  most  part  slumbering  peace 
fully  on  the  bare  board  floorings,  while  the  jaded 
beasts  which  drew  them  plodded  toward  home,  that 
goal  so  dumbly  and  steadily  craved.  Negroes  in 
groups  of  two  and  three,  returning  from  the  day's 
work,  lifted  their  rich,  throaty  voices  in  snatches  of 
concerted  song. 

"Good  evenin',  Marse  Jim,"  or  "Good  evenin', 
Colonel,"  said  each  in  turn,  raising  a  quick  hand  to  a 
battered  cap-rim.  Invariably  there  was  a  second 
greeting  and  a  stooping  pat  for  Rover,  who  was  quite 
as  well  known  of  the  Hill  as  his  master.  Indeed,  so 
inseparable  were  the  two  that  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  think  of  one  without  the  other. 

Ciceley's  place,  unlike  that  of  Colonel  Jim's,  did 
not  face  directly  upon  the  main  road.  To  approach  it, 
one  needed  to  turn  into  a  broad,  sandy  street  which 
might  have  been  called  a  lane  but  for  its  width. 
On  each  side  grew  enormous  junipers,  the  branches 
meeting  at  so  low  a  pitch  overhead  that  a  tall  man 
could  reach  up  almost  anywhere  to  pluck  a  shaggy 
spray.  In  midsummer,  when  the  sun  drew  forth  the 
secret,  resinous  odor  of  these  boughs,  the  air  became 
steeped  in  an  Oriental  incense. 

From  the  moment  of  turning  one  could  see,  at  no 
great  distance,  the  big,  brick-pillared  gate  of  Little 
Sunshine,  bearing  its  stirrup  latch. 

Jim,  reaching  this,  raised  it  softly,  and  then,  gaining 
the  farther  side,  let  it  fall  with  deliberate  force.  Against 
the  stillness,  as  upon  some  vast,  hollow,  sanctuary 
door,  rang  the  sharp  summons.  Its  echo,  a  keen 


66  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

stipple  of  sound  reluctantly  disintegrating,  shivered 
along  the  earth  and  rose  among  tree-tops. 

As  if  in  answer  to  an  awaited  signal,  a  black-clad 
figure,  wearing  a  small,  gray,  crocheted  shoulder-shawl, 
ran  out  from  the  house  door,  and  stood  at  the  top  of 
the  verandah  step,  gazing  tense  and  motionless  toward 
the  gate. 

The  two  girls  were,  as  usual,  overdue.  They  should 
have  returned  by  the  last  car.  This  was  what  they 
had  promised  her.  By  the  time  the  next  one  could 
arrive,  it  would  be  quite  dark.  This  was  a  source  of 
constant  dread  to  Ciceley,  —  the  fear  that  her  young 
daughters  should  at  some  time,  because  of  tardiness, 
be  forced  to  walk  home  from  the  car,  at  night,  without 
masculine  protection.  Under  the  stimulus  of  mater 
nal  forebodings,  the  country  lane,  usually  so  open 
and  secure,  became  a  veritable  dark  grotto  from 
Dante's  hell.  Repetition  was  powerless  to  dull  the 
edge  of  her  imagination.  Always,  as  now,  she  had 
terrifying  visions  of  ambushed  highwaymen,  mad 
dogs  lathered  as  if  for  shaving,  or,  worst  of  all,  a 
fierce,  rampaging  bull,  pawing  the  earth  in  his  eager 
ness  to  gore  her  two  imprudent  darlings,  one  upon 
each  bloody  and  triumphant  horn. 

She  peered  now,  almost  praying  aloud  in  her  earnest 
ness,  for  a  sight  of  those  two  empty,  adored  young 
heads  above  the  gate.  But  it  was  only  Jim,  and  the 
loud  cheerfulness  of  his  "Hello!  Sis!"  did  little  to 
mitigate  the  watcher's  disappointment. 

Jim,  happily  unconscious  of  his  blighting  effect, 
strode  up  the  walk ;  while  Rover,  on  his  best  be 
havior  as  always  when  the  stirrup  latch  was  passed, 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  67 

ambled  decorously  in  the  rear,  his  low-hung  head 
and  shaggy  mane  swinging  in  rhythm  with  the  broad 
shoulders  of  his  master.  By  the  time  the  foot 
of  the  steps  was  reached,  Mrs.  Bering  had  achieved 
an  absent-minded  smile,  intended  by  way  of  wel 
come. 

"Worrying  about  those  girls  again,  I'll  bet  my  hat," 
remarked  the  visitor,  as  he  slowly  mounted  toward 
her. 

"Yes,  I  am.  I  can't  help  it.  I  am  always  worried 
when  they  don't  come  on  the  car  they  promised. 
Now  it  will  be  pitch  dark  before  they  can  possibly 
get  here." 

Lifting  the  article  of  headgear  so  casually  jeopar 
dized,  the  Colonel  made  as  if  to  pass,  moving  in  the 
direction  of  the  big  hickory  rocking-chair,  known  as 
his.  A  second  impulse  checked  him.  Ciceley  had 
not  stirred  by  an  inch.  Anxiety  ruffled  her  forehead ; 
her  dark  eyes  rested  on  the  gate  through  which  the 
tardy  ones  should  have  entered. 

The  man  had  yet  two  steps  to  ascend.  This 
brought  his  face  on  an  exact  level  with  hers.  In  all 
his  life  he  had  never  gazed,  with  conscious  scrutiny,  on 
Ciceley,  and  it  was  now  with  a  dull  sense  of  disloyalty 
that  he  found  himself  looking  among  the  carelessly 
arranged  masses  of  her  hair  for  the  white  strands 
suggested  by  Jule.  His  own  temples,  as  he  knew, 
were  noticeably  brushed  with  silver.  Instinctively 
he  put  up  a  hand  to  one  of  them. 

Rover  suddenly  threw  back  his  head.  His  faithful 
eyes  had  a  troubled  questioning.  The  sensitive 
dog-soul,  made  up  for  the  most  part  of  love  for  these 


68  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

two  beings,  felt  the  unusual  in  their  greeting.  He  did 
not  like  it.  A  few  more  volts  of  this  subtle  menace, 
and  he  would  have  howled.  The  Colonel,  however, 
was  just  drawing  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction.  No, 
Ciceley's  dark  locks  were  as  yet  unassailed. 

Now  Jim  moved  over  to  his  chair,  and  Rover,  also 
strangely  relieved,  though  by  what  influence  he  did 
not  know,  stretched  himself  at  full  length.  The 
world  was  good  again ! 

Jim,  with  the  unconsciousness  of  habit,  plunged  a 
hand  into  one  of  his  sagging  coat  pockets,  drawing 
out  a  much-used  pipe,  with  its  complementary  pouch 
and  box  of  matches.  A  tiny,  votive  flame  danced 
for  an  instant  above  this  small  altar  of  masculine 
content. 

"Oh,  come  along,  Sis.  Sit  down,"  he  urged,  after  a 
few  reposeful  whiffs.  "You  know  if  those  young  'uns 
of  yours  are  late,  it  only  means  that  each  of  'em  has 
caught  a  beau." 

Ciceley  slowly  turned.  Her  anxious  expression 
lightened  just  a  little.  For  the  first  time  since  his 
arrival,  she  looked  at  Jim  as  if  he  were  really  there. 
Now  she  reached  a  tentative  hand  toward  her  own 
smaller  rocking-chair.  Jim,  at  ease,  made  no  motion 
to  assist.  He  and  Ciceley  were  too  well  used  to  each 
other  for  such  punctilious  courtesies. 

"If  I  could  only  be  sure,"  she  murmured,  seating 
herself. 

"You  can!  Aren't  they  eternally  coming  home 
with  a  new  kill?" 

Ciceley  displayed  a  shy  dimple.  Catching  his 
humorous,  half-accusing  eyes,  her  smile  deepened, 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  69 

and  a  flush  made  her  cheeks  young.  One  would 
have  thought  her  charged  with  personal  coquetry. 

"They  are  disgraceful  young  flirts,  the  two  of  'em ! " 
fumed  the  Colonel.  Under  her  look  of  merry  skepti 
cism  he  was  goaded  into  the  accusation.  "And  you 
are  just  as  bad  as  they  are,  for  you  glory  in  their  devil 
ment  !  I'm  ashamed  of  the  whole  bunch  of  you !" 

At  this  scathing  denunciation  his  listener  threw 
back  her  head  and  laughed.  It  was  a  sound  low  and 
exquisite,  thrilled  with  a  woodland  freedom.  Ciceley 
did  not  often  laugh,  but  when  she  did,  one  thought 
of  ferns  in  wind-swept,  shadowed  nooks,  of  birds 
fluting  from  hidden  choirs.  One  seemed  to  see,  as 
well  as  hear,  the  lovely  cadences.  Jim  watched  her 
hungrily.  He  thought  of  the  small,  brown,  Southern 
butterfly,  usually  so  inconspicuous  and  demure, 
which  suddenly,  and  always  unexpectedly,  flashes 
apart  the  tightly  closed  wings,  showing  a  dazzling 
flash  of  gold.  If  only  he  could  win  for  his  own  this 
small,  brown  butterfly !  —  could,  at  the  touch  of 
love,  make  the  bright  wings  gleam  for  him ! 

He  drew  a  heavy  sigh,  which  was  broken  in  upon, 
midway,  by  the  laughing  words,  "You  dear  old  hum 
bug  !  You're  as  proud  of  them  this  minute  as  I  am !" 

"Proud!"  vociferated  the  Colonel,  taken  unaware. 
"Nothing  of  the  sort!" 

"You  can't  help  seeing  that  they  are—  What 
Ciceley  wished  to  say  was  "beautiful  ",  but  since,  in 
the  minds  of  the  conservative  Hill,  such  terms  in  the 
mouth  of  a  parent  were  not  only  unseemly  but  posi 
tively  indelicate,  she  transformed  it  hastily  into  the 
milder  "sweet." 


70  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

The  Colonel  understood.  "  They're  neither  of  them 
a  patch  on  what  you  were  at  their  age,"  he  averred 
with  emphasis. 

"  Oh,  Jim ! "  she  cried  at  this,  aghast  at  such  wanton 
desecration  of  her  idols,  "You  know  that  isn't  true. 
I  was  never  really  —  pretty,  and  Lucille  —  why,  just 
look  at  Lucille  !  She's  —  everybody  says  — •"  Again 
forbidden  adjectives  stayed  her. 

"Lucille's  not  bad-looking,"  admitted  Jim,  but 
immediately  qualified  the  concession  with,  "for  those 
who  happen  to  like  marble  images." 

Ciceley  made  no  reply.  Her  hurt  expression 
deepened  into  something  touched  with  anger.  Into 
the  man's  mind  flashed  a  phrase  of  Julia's  letter,  "I 
am  so  proud  of  Wick!"  Was  it  a  necessity  for  all 
mothers  to  be  blind?  And  was  Julia's  "pride"  of 
the  same  touch-me-not,  sensitive-plant  variety  as 
Ciceley's  ?  A  dull  resentment  against  the  whole  race 
of  mothers  drove  Jim  more  recklessly  into  disparage 
ment. 

"It  wasn't  whether  your  girls  are  pretty  or  not, 
Sis,  that  I  was  thinking.  It's  their  selfishness  with 
regard  to  you.  Of  course  you've  spoiled  them,  —  I 
suppose  that  was  natural ;  but  they're  old  enough  now 
to  have  a  little  sense  of  their  own.  The  very  way 
they  speak  to  you  makes  me  mad.  They're  regular 
young  — " 

He  sat  upright,  and  let  his  eyes  travel  meaningly 
upward  until  they  rested  upon  the  bronze  medallion 
over  the  front  door,  where  internally  the  mother- 
pelican  bared  her  torn  breast  to  her  rapacious 
fledglings. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  71 

Ciceley  flung  him  an  indignant  half-glance  then, 
turned  her  head,  keeping  her  face  rigidly  averted. 

"Now,  Sis,"  placated  the  offender,  seeing  that  he 
had  gone  too  far.  "You  mustn't  get  mad.  I  didn't 
mean  — " 

"It  is  not  worth  getting  mad  about.  Only,  I 
sometimes  wonder  at  the  blindness  and  ignorance  of 
the  people  who  call  themselves  my  friends." 

Coolly  she  met  his  astonished  gaze.  It  seemed 
another  Ciceley.  Was  everything,  to-day,  being 
turned  upside  down? 

"I  have  noticed,"  she  pursued  relentlessly,  "that  it 
is  always  those  with  no  children  of  their  own,  —  Old 
Mrs.  Rogers,  Mammy  Nycie,  and  you,  who  have  the 
most  to  say  about  mine.  If  you'd  try  to  help  and 
encourage  me  a  little,  instead  of  merely  criticising 
what  you  cannot  possibly  understand  —  She 
paused  on  a  note  that  matched  her  h'fted  eyebrows. 

Jim,  after  all,  was  human.  "I  have  tried  to 
help  —  just  a  little,"  said  he.  Again  Rover  turned 
questioning  eyes. 

Ciceley  maintained  her  chill  stare  a  moment  longer. 
The  big,  familiar  figure  was  huddled  now  deep  into 
its  hickory  chair.  The  head  and  eyelids  were  lowered, 
and  one  hand,  holding  the  old  pipe,  hung  over  a  chair- 
arm  limply.  The  attitude  bespoke  utter  defenceless- 
ness.  A  swift  compunction  seized  his  tormenter, 
and  there  was  a  thrill  of  tenderness  in  the  voice  that 
cried,  "Forgive  me,  Jim!  I'm  ashamed  of  myself. 
I  didn't  mean  it.  You  have  been  everything,  every 
thing,  to  my  fatherless  girls!" 

Jim's  gloomy  face  betrayed  no  answering  rapture. 


72  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Why,  you  dear  Jim,"  she  hurried  on,  insistent 
now  upon  his  virtues,  "none  of  us  could  have  even 
kept  alive  but  for  you.  The  splendid  price  you  got 
for  that  old  Sand  Town  tract,  when  everybody  said 
it  was  worthless,  —  and  then  the  way  you  invested 
the  money  for  us  !  It  was  wonderful !" 

Jim  writhed  as  if  in  bodily  anguish,  and  dropped 
his  pipe.  Perhaps  it  was  the  stooping  for  it  that  made 
his  face  so  swift  and  deep  a  crimson. 

In  lifting  his  head,  he  caught  her  gaze  more 
fairly.  She  was  leaning  toward  him,  a  hint  of  gold 
between  brown  wings  that  quivered  apart  in  pleading. 

"Jim,  Jim!  Say  that  you  forgive  me.  I  know  I 
am  not  myself  when  anything  is  said  about  the  girls. 
Jim !"  this  last  in  a  sort  of  wail,  for  his  look  had  not 
softened.  "You  couldn't  be  really  angry  with  me 
for  long!" 

Jim  made  a  sound,  half  groan,  half  sigh.  "No, 
Sis,  you  are  right,  I  couldn't." 

"Then  we  can  begin  all  over  again,  and  play  I 
never  said  it!"  she  cried,  affecting  a  sprightliness 
and  composure  that  she  was  far  from  feeling.  "I've 
got  something  funny,  —  something  really  awfully 
queer  that  I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you." 

He  made  no  response.  She  caught  her  breath  at 
this,  but  forced  her  bright  tone  into  saying,  "Guess 
who  I've  been  thinking  about  to-day?" 

"The  pelicans,  of  course !"  growled  Jim,  and  imme 
diately  felt  better. 

"No.  Not  the  pelicans,"  she  laughed,  determined, 
for  her  part,  on  being  generous.  "It's  somebody 
far,  far  away  from  us." 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  73 

A  premonition  of  the  truth  caught  him.  He  sat  sud 
denly  upright.  Good  Lord ! .  Had  she  already  dug  out 
his  secret !  Women  were  witches  of  intuition,  and  no 
mistake!  Because  it  was  the  last  name  he  should 
have  mentioned,  and  the  one  his  saner  self  strove, 
even  now,  most  desperately  to  withhold,  some  demon 
of  malice  spoke  out  clearly.  "Not  Jule!" 

Ciceley  nodded.     "Exactly  —  Jule." 

The  hairs  on  the  back  of  Jim's  neck  stiffened.  He 
clenched  his  teeth  against  the  possibility  of  further 
betrayal,  but,  to  his  surprise  Ciceley  was  accepting 
without  astonishment  or  question  the  seeming  mir 
acle  of  telepathy. 

"I  hadn't  really  thought  about  Jule  for  months," 
the  speaker  went  on  confidently,  "and  all  at  once 
this  morning  — 

"This  morning !" 

"Why,  yes,  quite  early.  I  was  in  the  room  with 
the  girls,  helping  them  dress  to  go  into  town." 

Her  wide,  candid  eyes  questioned  the  incredulity 
of  his. 

"All  right.  It's  nothing.  Go  on,"  he  muttered, 
slouching  back  to  his  former  position. 

"Just  when  they  had  finished  and  I  stood  looking 
at  them,  it  came  over  me,  all  at  once,  how  much  I 
longed  for  Jule,  so  that  she  could  see  them  too.  They 
never  were  —  nicer,"  added  Ciceley  in  a  fatuous,  if 
slightly  appealing  afterthought. 

Jim  grunted. 

"She  used  to  write  to  me  real  often,"  continued 
the  speaker,  ignoring  tactfully  the  unsympathetic 
sound.  "I  did  love  to  get  Jule's  letters." 


74  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Did  you  love  'em  enough  to  answer  'em?" 

Ciceley  hung  her  head.  Jim  watched  her  from  the 
corner  of  an  eye.  "Thank  heaven!"  was  now  his 
inward  ejaculation,  "I've  sidetracked  her!"  But 
his  relief  was  short.  "Do  you  always  answer  Jule's 
letters?"  came  as  if  from  a  shotgun. 

"Me!  What!"  gasped  Jim.  "What  ever  made 
you  think  she  wrote  to  me?" 

"Why,  naturally  she  does.  Do  you  want  to  keep 
it  a  secret?" 

There,  she  had  spoken  it,  "  secret."  She  had  used 
the  very  word  which  since  early  morning  had  fretted 
his  honest  soul  like  a  bit  of  thistle  in  the  throat. 
He  might  have  known  he  was  no  match  for  a  woman. 
Flight  alone  remained.  He  attempted  to  rise,  fell 
back,  and  finally  got  to  his  feet  so  heavily  that  Rover 
sprang  up  barking,  and  Ciceley  stared  in  unfeigned 
astonishment.  Jim's  gaze  met  hers,  only  to  be 
caught  away. 

Now  Ciceley  too  sprang  up.  A  prescient  thrill  sped 
between  them,  turning  her  cold.  He  could  see  through 
the  deepening  gloom,  —  for  night  was  falling  rapidly, 
—  how  the  two  small  hands,  clutching  at  each  other, 
went  up  tightly  against  her  breast.  The  white  oval 
of  her  face  was  a  rose-petal,  drifting  upon  the  dark 
ness.  Almost  he  knew  its  fragrance. 

Instinctively  he  hurried  toward  her,  while  she  as 
instinctively  cowered  back,  flinging  out  a  hand  to 
keep  him  off.  The  look,  the  gesture,  each  so  elo 
quent  of  what  she  had  begun  to  fear,  set  a  quick  torch 
to  longings  never  in  her  presence  completely  under 
rein. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  75 

An  instant  before  there  had  been  in  his  thoughts 
no  hint  of  freeing  such  words  as  now  surged  through 
him,  battering  for  egress  at  the  gateway  of  his  lips. 
A  flame  had  suddenly  leaped  up  from  nowhere.  Love 
and  a  new  hope  were  scorching  him. 

"No,  no !"  cried  out  a  woman's  voice,  fear-touched 
to  a  high  and  ringing  sweetness.  "You  promised, 
Jim;  you  promised!" 

Her  tone  pierced  the  last  barrier  of  self-con 
trol.  "I  know  I  did,  Sis.  But  I'm  going  to  break 
that  promise." 

"  You  mustn't  Jim.  You  said  you  would  never  hurt 
me  by  speaking  this  way  again.  I've  trusted  you." 

"It's  not  your  trust  I  want.  It's  love,  it's  you! 
Oh,  Ciceley,  how  long  will  you  keep  me  waiting? 
It  has  been  you  and  you  only  all  of  my  life !  Does 
that  count  in  your  heart  as  nothing?" 

Ciceley,  shrinking  farther,  covered  her  face  with 
both  hands. 

"Don't  you  see,  Sis,"  he  urged,  the  first  flare  of  his 
passion  sinking  down  into  tenderness,  "that  you 
need  me  almost  as  much  as  I  need  you?  The  girls 
are  getting  beyond  you.  Think  what  I  could  be 
in  helping  you  with  them." 

"I  do,  Jim,"  she  whispered.  "It  is  of  them  only 
that  I  am  thinking.  My  life  belongs  to  them." 

"It  wouldn't  belong  to  them  any  the  less  if  you 
married  me." 

"You  don't  understand,"  she  moaned.  "It  would 
be  different.  They  would  resent  my  putting  any  one 
else  before  them  —  or  even  —  You  know  what  I 
mean  —  I  can't  seem  to  find  the  right  words.  You 


76  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

help  me  now,  dear  Jim.  I've  told  you  so.  Why 
can't  you  be  satisfied  with  things  as  they  are?" 

"Good  Lord!"  said  the  man,  as  if  speaking  out  to 
the  night.  "And  she  asks  me  that!" 

"I  —  I  —  care  for  you,  Jim  —  more  than  any 
thing  or  anybody  in  the  world,  next  to  my  girls. 
You  believe  that,  don't  you?" 

"Then  give  me  a  little  real  happiness  in  my  life 
before  it  is  too  late." 

At  this  she  shook  her  head.  "It's  too  late  now  for 
what  you  mean.  We're  past  that  time,  Jim,  you 
and  I." 

"Speak  for  yourself,"  cried  Jim,  pain  making  his 
voice  loud  and  rough.  "I'm  not!  And  in  my  eyes 
you're  just  as  sweet  and  pretty  as  you  ever  were." 

Ciceley,  letting  her  two  hands  fall,  smiled  faintly. 
She  was  terribly,  terribly  sorry  for  Jim,  but  after 
all  it  was  his  own  fault  for  keeping  up  this  silly  atti 
tude.  The  pleadings  of  impassioned  love  did  not 
belong  to  middle-aged  friends  who  might  justly  be 
supposed  to  have  outgrown  their  youthful  ardors. 
There  was  something  about  it  hinting  of  the  ridiculous. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  Jim  was  distinctly  unkind  to 
break  his  promises  of  silence  and  cause  her  to  feel  so 
self-conscious  and  absurd. 

Jim  had  been  watching  her.  The  small  face  was 
still  pallidly  vague,  but,  knowing  her  as  he  did,  each 
movement  of  shoulders,  head,  and  hands,  was  filled 
with  meaning. 

"You  feel  perfectly  sure,  then,  that  you  are  never, 
under  any  circumstances,  going  to  be  willing  to  marry 
me?" 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  77 

Ciceley  hesitated  the  fraction  of  a  second,  then 
stated  firmly,  "I  am  sure,  Jim." 

He  was  silent  and  motionless  for  so  long  that  a 
faint  alarm  assailed  her.  The  little  gray  shawl  had 
fallen.  She  stooped  for  it,  wrapping  herself  slowly 
with  absent-minded  precision. 

"Jim!" 

He  made  no  answering  sound.  A  tiny  shiver,  born 
of  the  chill  night,  ran  through  her.  She  stepped  closer. 

"Jim!" 

"Yes,  Sis." 

"You  won't  change  to  me  because  of  this ? "    There 

was  a  lilt  of  anxious  questioning  in  her  tone.     "You 

will  be  my  very  best  friend  —  always  ?     And  —  and 

-  you  won't  let  it  make  any  difference  to  —  poor 

Henry's  children  ?  " 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said  to  her  quietly,  after  a 
moment's  pause.  "It  isn't  going  to  make  any  dif 
ference  to  poor  Henry's  children."  Ciceley  started 
at  the  note  of  bitterness.  Was  it  really  good  old  Jim 
who  spoke  in  such  a  voice?  Rover  whined  softly, 
brushing  against  his  master's  knees.  For  once  he 
was  ignored. 

Ciceley  involuntarily  stooped  down.  Her  hand 
caressed  the  dog's  head  as  she  said  plaintively, 
"And  not  to  me  either,  Jim.  I  couldn't  bear  for  any 
real  difference  to  come  between  you  and  me.  Why, 
you  are  my  big  brother,  my  counsellor,  my  friend, 
—  everything ! " 

At  the  last  word,  Jim  gave  a  sort  of  grimace,  meant 
for  a  smile.  Then  he  drew  himself  very  straight,  and 
threw  back  his  shoulders  determinedly.  "If  it  suits 


78  THE    STIRRUP   LATCH 

you,  all  right!  From  now  on,  I'll  remember.  You 
shall  not  be  bothered  again,  Sis." 

Ciceley  smiled  up  at  him  with  a  look  not  unlike 
that  of  a  mother  who  encourages  the  somewhat  vain 
glorious  boasting  of  a  small  son.  Her  lips  murmured 
a  few  grave  words  of  appreciation,  but  unfortunately, 
at  one  of  the  corners,  a  betraying  dimple  played. 

Jim  caught  its  shy  twinkle.  A  flush  of  hurt  pride, 
tinged  with  anger,  made  his  cheeks  burn.  So  it  still 
seemed  a  joke  to  Ciceley ! 

"You  think  that  I  won't!"  he  flung  out.  "You 
think  I'll  break  this  as  I  have  all  the  others.  Well, 
you're  mistaken !  A  man  can't  eat  dirt  all  his  life. 
This  time  it's  a  promise  to  me  —  to  what's  left  of  my 
own  self-respect;  and  by  the  Lord  Harry,  this  time 
it  is  going  to  be  kept!" 


CHAPTER  SIX 

THE  PELICANS 

CICELEY  withdrew  her  caresses  from  Rover.  She 
like  Jim,  stood  up  straight.  Her  lips  parted  in  amaze 
ment,  still  tinged  just  a  little  with  incredulity.  That 
he  meant  it  this  time,  or  thought  that  he  meant  it, 
was  not  to  be  doubted. 

Against  the  deepening  night  his  bulk  loomed,  a 
figure  of  bronze.  The  dog  now  drew  back,  changing 
into  a  bronze,  dog  that  set  hard,  watchful  eyes  upon 
her.  The  air  began  draining  away,  leaving  the 
space  thin  and  cold. 

She  gave  a  short,  nervous  laugh.  She  had  asked 
for  this  thing.  All  along  she  had  believed  herself 
to  have  desired  it,  but  now,  being  given,  it  brought  a 
queer  feeling  of  loss. 

Jim  had  turned  to  descend.     "No,  wait,  Jim,"  she 
cried,  on  an  impulse.     The  man  hesitated.     "I  can't 
let   you    go    like    this,"    she   faltered.     "I  —  Jim — 
wait !     There's  something  — 

Through  the  vacuum  of  embarrassed  silence,  as  from 
a  world  very  far  away,  came  the  rumble  of  a  trolley- 
car  climbing  the  slope  of  the  Hill.  For  Ciceley  it 

79 


8o  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

was  as  if  a  troubled  dream  were  pricked  by  a  sudden 
waking. 

"There's  the  car!"  she  announced  quite  unneces 
sarily,  "I  knew  it  was  just  about  time.  The  girls 
are  sure  to  be  on  it!" 

Entirely  herself  once  more,  she  ran  to  the  top  step, 
poised  in  her  attitude  of  expectancy.  Her  eager, 
outward  gaze  was  fixed  in  the  direction  of  the  gate. 
Jim  had  become  no  more  than  one  of  the  empty 
verandah  chairs. 

For  the  second  time  in  his  honest,  genial  life,  the 
man  knew  the  savor  of  a  great  bitterness.  Only  a 
few  moments  before  he  had  snapped  with  his  own 
hands,  as  it  were,  and  at  this  woman's  will,  the  last 
filament  of  hope  that  held  him  to  a  personal  joy. 
It  was  his  final  sacrifice.  To  her  it  meant  appar 
ently  little  more  than  riddance  of  a  thorn. 

He  stepped  down  quickly.  "Oh,  Jim,"  she  pro 
tested,  catching  at  his  shoulder,  "don't  go  like  this. 
Besides,"  she  added  brightly,  knowing  well  her  power 
over  him,  "I  want  you  to  help  me  light  the  lamps." 

He  wrenched  himself  from  her  touch,  but  she 
ignored  the  unfriendly  gesture,  and  hurried  back 
into  the  house. 

"Jim,"  rose  her  plaintive  voice  a  moment  later, 
"come  here.  I  can't  reach  up  to  this  tall  piano  lamp." 

With  something  as  near  a  shrug  as  he  had  ever 
managed  to  attain,  Jim  went  in,  followed  reluctantly 
by  Rover. 

Together  he  and  Ciceley  lighted  all  the  lamps. 
Mammy  Nycie  had  evidently  overlooked  them.  In 
her  reaction  from  the  crisis  just  passed,  Ciceley  had 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  81 

swung  into  a  mood  of  animation,  touched  with  an 
underlying  excitement.  In  moving  about  the  room, 
she  kept  up  an  incessant  flow  of  conversation.  It 
was  as  if  she  fought  off  a  new  menace  of  silence. 

"You  see,  Jim,  I  was  specially  anxious  to-day, 
because  the  girls  had  gone  out  to  a  luncheon  on  that 
big  battleship  that  is  in  the  harbor  now.  Of  course 
I  knew  there  couldn't  be  any  real  danger  on  such  a 
big  boat,  and  with  all  the  sailors  trained  to  keep  visi 
tors  from  falling  overboard ;  but,  somehow,  I  just 
can't  outgrow  a  feeling  of  terror  when  I  know  that 
Sylvia  and  Lucille  are  on  the  water."  Here  she 
broke  in  upon  her  monologue  to  demand  of  him 
eagerly,  "Isn't  that  the  car,  stopping  down  at  the 
corner  ? " 

"Yes,  quite  a  long  stop,"  answered  Jim  from  the 
doorway.  "There's  a  whole  bunch  getting  off." 

"I'm  glad  the  old  room  looks  so  tidy,"  self-con 
gratulated  Ciceley,  glancing  about  her  with  a  smile. 
"Mammy  Nycie  and  I  gave  it  a  thorough  cleaning 
only  this  morning.  Of  course  the  old  furniture  is 
pretty  shabby,"  she  conceded.  "But  then,"  bright 
ening,  "flowers  make  a  lot  of  difference,  don't 
they?" 

She  went  over  to  the  old-fashioned  square  piano 
to  finger  lovingly  a  great  bowl  of  yellow  roses.  Her 
small  face,  turned  backward  over  the  gray  crocheted 
shawl,  pleaded  for  confirmation  of  the  statement. 

Jim,  with  head  rigid,  answered  gruffly  "Yes", 
supplementing  the  laconic  utterance  with  the  remark, 
"Well,  I  reckon  Rover  and  I  had  better  be  trotting 
home." 


82  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

This  time  Ciceley  made  no  protest.  She  did  not 
need  him  now  that  her  idols  were  so  near.  Indeed, 
in  her  heart,  she  wished  him  to  be  gone ;  for  not  in 
frequently  of  late,  he  and  Lucille  had,  as  he  expressed 
it,  "locked  horns." 

"Good  night,  then,  if  you  must,"  said  his  hostess 
pleasantly,  extending  a  somewhat  oily  hand. 

"  Good  night,"  responded  Jim  dully. 

Through  the  night,  as  the  two  hands  met,  came 
from  the  stirrup  latch  a  loud,  clear  stroke,  followed 
immediately  by  a  second. 

"Hello!  What's  that?"  cried  the  man.  "Sounds 
like  a  signal !" 

"It  is  —  a  sort  of  one,"  said  Ciceley,  laughing  a 
little   nervously.     "You   see  —  the  girls   and   I- 
she  went  on,  "we  have  lots  of  private  signs.     This 
one  —  it  really  isn't  anything  —    '  she  broke  off  in 
obvious  confusion. 

Jim  did  not  relax  his  puzzled  frown.  "It  was  a 
signal,  then?" 

"It  is  nothing.  I've  told  you  it  was  nothing," 
she  reiterated,  with  an  edge  of  sharpness.  "Good 
night." 

The  gate  could  be  heard  to  slam.  Again  resounded 
two  crisp  detonations,  carefully  spaced. 

Jim's  curiosity  and  stubbornness  sprang  simul 
taneously  to  the  fore. 

"If  it  is  nothing,  why  should  you  look  scared  to 
death?  Those  girls  are  up  to  some  mischief,  and  I 
am  going  to  stay  right  here  until  I  find  out  what  it 
is." 

"You  mustn't,  Jim.     Please  don't.     I  have  told 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  83 

you  that  it  is  something  between  the  girls  and 
me." 

"And  therefore,"  he  added  grimly,  "none  of  my 
business." 

"I  didn't  say  that.     How  can  you  be  so  unkind?" 

Jim  waved  aside  the  implication  of  malevolence. 
"As  far  as  you  are  personally  concerned,  I'll  admit 
my  hands  are  tied.  But — "  here  he  regarded  her 
steadily,  "you  forget  how  recently  you  urged  me  to 
keep  up  my  interest  in  poor  Henry's  children." 

Ciceley  was  on  the  verge  of  tears.  She  looked  up 
imploringly,  her  eyes  luminous  with  their  sheen. 
Jim  set  his  teeth.  The  sound  of  laughter  and  young 
voices  without  drew  close. 

"Well,  if  you  must  know,"  cried  she,  striving  des 
perately  to  conserve  an  air  of  sprightliness,  "those 
two  raps  are  a  sign  that  the  girls  have  strangers  with 
them.  It  is  to  give  me  time." 

"Time!"  stared  Jim.     "Time  for  what?" 

"Oh,  you  old  stupid !  Time  to  get  out  of  the  way, 
of  course.  There,  they  are  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps. 
Let's  hurry  into  the  dining  room."  By  this  a  white 
panic  was  on  her  upturned  face. 

Jim  reached  out  and  caught  her  firmly  by  the  arm. 
"You  are  not  going  to  stir  an  inch.  This  is  your 
house,  and  this  is  the  place  for  you  to  receive  your 
daughters'  guests." 

"You  don't  understand  ! "  she  wailed.  "Let  me  go, 
Jim.  Please  let  me  go !  Lucille  will  be  furious." 

Jim's  taut  lips  stiffened.  Nothing  is  quite  so 
brutalizing  as  pain ;  and  the  man,  through  his  suffering, 
found  a  sort  of  grim  satisfaction  in  persistence.  The 


84  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

truth  of  the  situation  had  begun  to  dawn.  He  had 
long  suspected  that  Ciceley  was  in  actual  fear  of  her 
elder  daughter.  Now  he  was  sure  of  it.  "Perhaps 
I  don't  understand,"  he  granted  harshly.  "But 
I'm  going  to,  and  that  mighty  soon." 

For  an  instant  she  drooped,  only  to  rouse  herself 
to  a  new  and  more  desperate  defiance. 

"Release  me  at  once,  Jim.  Do  you  hear?"  she 
commanded,  struggling  in  his  hold.  "You  must 
have  gone  out  of  your  senses  to  act  this  way !  I 
want  to  get  out  of  the  room  before  they  come.  I 
haven't  dressed  since  morning.  I  am  not  fit  to  re 
ceive  guests." 

"You  received  me." 

"Oh,  you!"  The  angry  laugh  was  vibrant  with 
scorn.  Then  again  her  eyes  turned  fearfully  toward 
the  door.  "  They  are  on  the  steps.  Release  my  arm, 
Jim  Roy,  or  I  shall  never  forgive  you !" 

For  answer  he  merely  tightened  his  relentless 
grasp. 

By  this,  Rover,  who  had  been  cowering  at  a  little 
distance,  sprang  up,  and,  hearing  the  voices  without, 
rushed  toward  them,  barking  frantically. 

A  girlish  squeal  followed  by  bright  laughter  cold 
that  little  Sylvia  was  trying  to  beat  the  dog  away. 

In  a  moment  came  the  clear,  beautifully  modulated 
tones  of  Lucille.  "It's  only  Rover.  He  won't 
bite.  That  means  —  Uncle  Jim."  The  name  was 
given  with  an  intonation  of  impatience. 

"The  icy  mitt  for  Uncle  Jim,  whoever  he  may  be," 
responded  a  boyish,  laughing  voice,  unknown  to  the 
straining  ears  within. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  85 

/Ciceley  stood  now  apparently  passive;  but  every 
fiber  of  her  slender  body  ached  with  rage. 

Little  Sylvia  rushed  in.  "Mother!"  she  warned 
in  a  breathless  whisper,  "didn't  you  hear  the  signal? 
We've  brought  two  naval  officers  home." 

"What  of  it?  They  won't  bite  your  mother,  will 
they?"  demanded  Colonel  Jim,  with  an  ogre's  glare. 

"Oh,"  faltered  Sylvia,  backing  swiftly,  "of  course 
they  won't.  Only  Lucille  — 

"Lucille!  Where  is  she?  Tell  her  that  Mrs. 
Bering  is  waiting  to  receive  her  and  her  companions, 
here  in  the  drawing-room,"  ordered  Jim,  in  a  sten 
torian  voice. 

Lucille  entered,  her  golden  head  high  in  air.  Hers 
was  the  kind  of  anger  that  steadies  and  burns  cold. 
Her  face  was  white  flint.  Behind  her,  following 
uncertainly,  came  the  young  officers. 

Conventional  presentations  were  made,  in  which 
Ciceley,  who,  after  all,  was  integrally  an  aristocrat, 
had  little  difficulty  in  finding  pleasant  words  and 
even,  once  or  twice,  a  smile.  The  young  men,  horribly 
if  vaguely  embarrassed,  were  overwhelming  in  the 
cordiality  of  their  responses.  Only  Colonel  Jim, 
standing  apart,  was  like  a  cliff  with  a  black  cloud  on 
its  summit.  The  air  was  charged  as  if  before  a 
thunderstorm ;  and  it  was  with  a  heart  sick  with  its 
longing  to  escape  that  Ciceley  took  advantage  of  the 
first  courteous  opportunity. 

Blindly  she  groped  her  way  toward  the  dining 
room.  She  was  not  clearly  conscious  of  direction, 
only  to  get  away,  somewhere  —  somewhere  —  to 
herself ! 


86  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

In  the  old  room,  which  was  indeed  the  chief  living 
nook  of  the  entire  household,  no  light  but  the  dull 
flicker  of  logs  was  seen.  A  sense  of  gratefulness 
toward  the  friendly  semi-darkness  touched  her  like 
a  comforting  hand.  Now,  if  the  others  would  leave 
her  to  herself ;  if  only  they  would  not  follow ! 

Stifling  something  like  a  sob,  she  ran  toward  the 
familiar  hearth.  For  an  instant  she  paused  here, 
lifting  her  eyes  toward  her  husband's  portrait,  hang 
ing  above.  The  fire-gleam  did  not  reach  it.  Even 
the  picture  had  deserted  her. 

Now,  all  at  once,  she  realized  how  she  was  trem 
bling.  Stretching  her  hand  toward  a  chair,  she  grasped 
the  back,  and  was  at  the  point  of  collapse  when  the 
single  word  "Mother!"  stinging  like  a  whiplash, 
startled  her  back  to  rigidity. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  —  this  —  pe-cu-liar 
—  exhibition?"  asked  Lucille,  drawling  contemp 
tuously  upon  the  adjective. 

The  tone  of  the  words,  rather  than  their  content, 
spread  like  an  eating  acid  over  Ciceley's  heart. 

"I  cannot  talk  about  it  now,  Lucille.  I  am  all 
upset.  See  how  my  hands  are  shaking !  Go  back  to 
your  guests,  please." 

"  Sylvia  is  in  the  parlor.  I  do  not  care  to  postpone 
what  I  have  to  say." 

"I'm  really  ill,  Lucille.     I  am  not  able  — 

"It's  not  to  be  wondered  at,"  commented  the  girl, 
with  a  sneer.  "Of  course  Uncle  Jim,  with  some  of 
his  ridiculous  ideas,  put  you  up  to  this!" 

At  the  mention  of  Jim's  name,  the  badgered  woman, 
not  realizing  that  she  did  so,  sent  an  imploring  look 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  87 

toward  the  big  leathern  chair  known  as  his.  The 
established  place  for  Uncle  Jim  was  at  the  corner  of 
the  hearth,  just  opposite.  In  the  instinctive  glance 
she  had  had  no  thought  except  to  find  it  empty. 
With  the  sense  of  a  miraculous  happening,  she  per 
ceived  that  the  big  figure  had  come  in  noiselessly, 
and,  quite  as  usual,  preempted  its  sanctioned  niche. 
Terror  sank  down  before  this  bulwark  of  defence. 

At  the  swift  change  in  her  mother's  face,  Lucille, 
off  guard,  wheeled  around.  The  voice  was  less 
restrained  which  challenged  sharply,  "This  affair 
is  entirely  between  my  mother  and  myself,  Uncle 
Jim!" 

Jim,  smiling  pleasantly,  took  out  his  pipe,  and 
proceeded  to  stuff  it.  Rover,  at  peace  once  more, 
curled  himself  close  about  his  master's  feet. 

Lucille  took  her  underlip  between  her  teeth.  The 
beautiful,  hard  face  grew,  if  possible,  more  bloodless. 

"You  insist,  then,  upon  remaining?" 

Jim  drew  a  match  along  his  trouser  leg,  and  calmly 
applied  it  to  his  pipe. 

"Come  to  my  room,  Mother,"  ordered  the  girl. 
"Perhaps  —  "  she  paused  to  send  a  triumphant  glance 
toward  Jim  —  "we  shall  be  allowed  privacy  there." 

"Stay  exactly  where  you  are,  Sis,"  counter 
manded  the  Colonel.  "And,"  he  added,  "you'd 
better  sit  down." 

Ciceley  obeyed  him  quickly.  She  did  not  dare 
to  look  toward  Lucille.  For  years  the  girl's  strong 
will  and  latent  violence  had  dominated  her  house 
hold  group.  Before  the  first  symptom  of  "one  of 
Lucille's  tantrums  ",  as  covertly  they  were  termed, 


88  THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 

Ciceley  and  little  Sylvia  invariably  fled.  Only  old 
Mammy  Nycie,  goaded  beyond  the  limits  of  African 
constraint,  had  ventured  now  and  again  to  fight  the 
rising  flames.  With  each  encounter  Lucille,  needless 
to  say,  had  emerged  victorious. 

Now  had  appeared  in  the  open  this  new,  but  long 
suspected  antagonist.  "Well,"  thought  the  girl, 
"I've  seen  it  coming,  and  I  might  as  well  have  it 
over  here  and  now."  The  prospect  had,  for  her,  no 
terrors.  The  high-bred  nostrils,  scenting  battle, 
quivered  with  a  pleasurable  excitement.  Besides, 
the  Colonel's  weakest  spot  —  his  heart  —  had  long 
been  to  her  an  open  book.  It  was  here  that  she 
would  strike. 

From  the  drawing-room  came  intermittently 
snatches  of  Sylvia's  nervous  laughter  and  the  murmur 
of  masculine  voices  striving  for  heartiness  and  uncon 
cern.  Lucille,  still  standing,  moved  her  head  slightly 
in  that  direction,  and  appeared  to  hesitate. 

The  two  figures  seated,  one  at  each  side  of  her, 
watched  every  motion,  —  Ciceley  with  wide-eyed 
apprehension,  the  Colonel  furtively,  out  of  the  corner 
of  one  eye. 

Suddenly  the  girl  gave  a  low  laugh.  The  abrupt 
ness  of  it  was  uncanny.  It  had  the  sound  of  water 
under  ice.  Ciceley  with  difficulty  stifled  a  cry. 

"Mammy  Nycie  is  growing  very  careless,"  re 
marked  Lucille,  letting  her  calm  gaze  rest  upon  the 
unlighted  lamps.  "Shall  I  light  them,  Mother?" 

Not  pausing  for  reply,  the  girl  went  first  directly 
up  to  the  Colonel.  "Any  matches,  Uncle  Jim? 
Ours  are  never  in  place." 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  89 

He  handed  her  a  box  in  silence,  but  when  the  slim, 
almost  boyish  back  was  turned,  followed  it  with 
puzzled  eyes.  Ciceley,  noting  the  perplexity,  felt 
her  own  fears  rush  in  anew. 

"There,"  cried  Lucille.  "That's  better,  isn't 
it?"  From  the  two  old-fashioned  burners,  on  the 
sideboard,  a  swift  radiance  possessed  the  room. 
"Now  we  can  see  each  other  better  as  we  talk." 

Ciceley's  small  hands  clenched  beneath  the  shabby 
shawl.  Even  the  Colonel  felt  something  within  him 
beginning  to  turn  cold,  as  the  young  figure,  confident, 
moving  in  careless  grace,  retraced  deliberate  steps 
toward  the  hearth. 

Smiling,  she  drew  a  chair  forward,  seating  herself 
between  her  two  companions.  There  was  a  fleck  of 
something,  —  probably  a  mark  from  Rover's  welcom 
ing  paw,  —  on  her  dark  blue  skirt,  near  the  crossed 
knees.  This  she  brushed  off  with  feminine,  deft 
touches,  her  shining  head  tilted  first  to  one  side  and 
then  the  other.  When  satisfied  with  the  result,  she 
suddenly,  without  warning,  lifted  her  gaze  to  Jim. 
Instinctively  he  started.  He  could  have  cursed 
himself  for  the  default. 

"It  has  just  occurred  to  me,  Uncle  Jim,"  began 
she,  in  a  voice  treacherously  sweet,  "that  perhaps  I 
am  being  kept  in  ignorance." 

"I  am  no  guesser  of  riddles,"  gruffly  rejoined  the 
man  to  this  amazing  prologue.  What,  in  heaven's 
name,  was  the  girl  driving  at? 

"It  was  you,  I  feel  sure,  who  prevented  mother 
from  leaving." 

"It  was." 


90  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Who  literally  forced  her  to  remain,  looking  as 
she  did  —  as  she  does,"  added  the  clear  voice  sneer- 
ingly,  with  a  glance  toward  her  mother  that  sent  the 
small  figure  cowering  deeper  in  its  chair. 

"Your  mother's  place  is  in  the  drawing-room! 
You  girls  have  no  right  to  try  to  shove  her  off, 
as  if  —  as  if  —  It's  the  most  outrageous  thing 
I  ever  heard  of!"  vociferated  the  Colonel,  gathering 
heat. 

"Will  you  kindly  refrain  from  shouting,  there  are 
still  guests  in  mother's  drawing-room."  Her  words 
were  the  snapping  of  icicles. 

"I  am  only  trying  to  understand,"  she  continued 
smoothly.  "This  move  on  your  part  is  so  very  — 
revolutionary  —  I  feel  that  at  last  mother  must  have 
given  you  the  right  to  interfere." 

Jim,  for  an  instant,  could  only  gasp.     So  this  was 
it!     She  had  dared  to  aim  at  the  core  of  his  heart, 
his  love  for  Ciceley,  with  her  poisoned  arrows ! 
'.    "Lucille,  Lucille!    What  are  you  saying!"  came 
a  cry  from  the  huddled  figure  at  her  other  side. 

The  girl  seemed  not  to  hear.  Her  eyes  triumphed 
over  Jim.  No  one  not  well  acquainted  with  her  could 
have  suspected  that  she  was  fast  losing  self-control. 

"If,"  she  pursued,  with  just  a  touch  of  shrillness, 
"what  I  suspect  is  true,  allow  me  to  be  the  first  to 
offer  my  congratulations." 

Before  malignity  so  deep,  so  unashamed,  Jim's 
anger  died.  A  sort  of  hopeless  grief  replaced  it. 
The  blow  dealt  to  himself  was  less  of  a  calamity  than 
the  fact  that  Ciceley's  child  had  given  it.  Poor 
little  Sis!  No  wonder  she  had  been  afraid! 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  91 

It  was  with  a  restraint  and  dignity  far  more  dis 
concerting  to  Lucille  than  the  expected  flare  of  rage 
that  he  made  his  quiet  answer. 

"  If  you  are  trying  to  find  out  whether  your  mother 
has  honored  me  by  consenting  to  be  my  wife,  it  is 
easily  told.  She  has  not.  Only  a  few  moments 
before  you  returned  she  finally  refused  me.  But  in 
doing  so,  she  asked  me,  in  the  name  of  our  lifelong 
friendship,  not  to  give  up  my  interest  or  my  legal 
guardianship  in  my  dead  cousin's  children.  How 
much  your  mother  needs  assistance,  I'm  just  begin 
ning  to  learn.  No,  don't  try  to  stop  me.  It's  no 
use,  I  have  a  few  things  yet  to  say.  I  suspected  some 
thing  wrong  when  I  heard  that  sweet  little  signal  of 
yours  on  the  stirrup  latch.  I  stayed  deliberately 
and  against  your  mother's  will  just  to  find  out.  Well " 
-  here  he  drew  a  deep  breath,  with  a  sort  of  shudder 
in  it  —  "I've  found  out,  all  right!  And  let  me  tell 
you,  Lucille,  that  this  side  of  a  Red  Indian  torturing 
white  babies,  your  conduct  is  about  the  most  savage 
and  unnatural  that  human  depravity  can  show. 
You  ought  to  be  tied  to  a  whipping  post !" 

The  big  room  filled  with  a  terrifying  silence.  Lu 
cille,  shivering  in  all  her  slender  body,  strove  in  vain 
for  speech.  None  of  the  three  had  taken  cognizance 
of  a  more  definite  stir  in  the  adjoining  drawing-room. 

Now  Sylvia,  thrusting  her  head  in  at  a  partly 
opened  door,  summoned  Lucille  in  a  whisper.  "  Come 
back  in  here,  Lucille.  They  are  both  going." 

"Let  them  go!"  said  Lucille,  through  set  teeth. 

Sylvia  vanished,  but  her  appearance  had  in  some 
way  broken,  for  the  elder  girl,  the  ban  of  inarticula- 


92  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

tion.  Infuriated  phrases  broke  from  her  lips,  and 
tossed  themselves  in  utterance.  A  frenzy  of  abandon 
ment  caught  her.  For  the  first  time  in  all  her 
sheltered  life,  she  gave  the  open  road  to  violence. 

"Yes,  they  have  gone!"  she  panted.  "Why 
shouldn't  they?  Men  of  the  world  soon  learn  to 
shun  a  house  like  this !  Hayseeds,  and  country 
bumpkins  are  the  kind  we  cater  to !  They  feel  at 
home  here,  in  a  ramshackle  barn,  falling  to  pieces 
with  old  age.  They  never  notice  that  our  mother 
looks  like  a  servant.  Look  at  her  now,"  raged  the 
girl,  pointing  a  shaking  finger.  "Do  you  suppose 
that  if  she  ever  did  anything  but  shrivel  up  and  cry, 
I'd  be  talking  to  her  like  this !  Sylvia's  another ! 
But  I've  managed  to  put  a  little  spirit  into  her 
kittenish  soul.  We  have  both  asked  mother  to 
keep  up  appearances  a  little  better,  but  she  will 
not  listen.  She  says  she  is  too  old.  Well,  if  she's 
too  old,  let  her  keep  out  of  the  way  of  those  who 
are  not." 

Ciceley,  stung  at  last  into  self  assertion,  got  to  her 
feet.  "Be  silent,  Lucille.  You  shall  not  speak  to 
me  in  such  a  way." 

"And  how  are  you  going  to  prevent  it?"  the  demon 
in  Lucille  began,  when  Jim,  who  had  also  risen,  strode 
up  directly  in  front  of  her,  saying,  "Be  silent." 

From  the  doorway,  where  unseen  by  the  others 
little  Sylvia  had  again  made  her  appearance,  the 
sound  of  stifled  sobbing  came.  Jim,  insensate  to  the 
little  one's  terror,  cried  out  to  her,  "Come  here!" 

She  drew  nearer,  weeping  openly,  like  the  child  she 
was. 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  93 

"Are  you  too,  like  Lucille,  ashamed  of  your  own 
mother?" 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Jim  —  no  —  no  !  " 

"You  are  a  liar,  Sylvia/'  said  the  elder  girl.  "You 
have  told  me  so  a  dozen  times." 

"Jim,  Jim!"  came  the  cry  of  the  mother,  "I  can 
not  bear  any  more!" 

He  wheeled  just  in  time  to  prevent  Ciceley  from 
sinking  to  the  floor.  For  an  instant  he  held  her 
close.  She  strained  against  him,  her  whole  racked 
body  clamoring  for  his  strength.  "All  right,  little 
Sis,"  he  said,  thinking  her  most  poignant  wish  to  be 
for  his  absence,  "I'll  go." 

"One  minute,  Jim,"  she  gasped.  "Don't  leave 
me."  His  heart  gave  a  single  leap,  then  quivered 
back  into  steadiness. 

"I'm  here  as  long  as  you  need  me,  Sis.  I'll  tell 
you  what!"  he  exclaimed,  trying  to  speak  brightly. 
"Before  I  go,  suppose  I  see  you  to  your  room !" 

The  head  against  his  shoulder  nodded  acquiescence. 
He  caught  her  up  as  if  she  had  been  a  child.  "  Same 
corner  room?" 

Again  she  nodded,  at  which  Jim,  throwing  his 
head  well  back,  carried  her  past  the  astounded  girls 
and  up  the  wide  staircase,  not  pausing  until  her  door 
was  reached. 

"Got  any  key?"  he  asked,  setting  her  down. 

"No,  but  I  think  there's  a  bolt  inside,"  she  told 
him,  using  the  smothered  accents  of  a  conspirator. 

"Well,  shoot  it,  and  keep  it  shot.  And  in  the 
morning"  —  here,  seeing  her  wince,  he  took  both  icy 
hands  in  his,  moving  them  playfully  up  and  down  — 


94  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"things  always  look  much  better  in  the  morning." 

She  tried  to  give  an  answering  smile,  but  her  eyes 
were  still  imploring.  At  that  moment  some  instinct 
told  him  that  by  the  urging  he  could  have  what  he 
had  coveted  so  long.  Again  came  the  heart-leap. 
"No!"  said  he  to  it  sternly.  There  was  a  certain 
pride,  a  tender  bigness  in  the  man,  that  held  him. 
Not  in  reaction  from  a  scene  like  this  would  he  win 
her. 

"Good  night,  dear  little  Sis.     God  bless  you." 

"Good  night,  dear  Jim." 

She  closed  the  door  reluctantly. 

"I'm  waiting  to  hear  that  bolt,"  he  said. 

Ciceley  gave  a  little  sob,  and  the  bolt  slid,  creaking, 
into  place. 

Jim  strode  heavily  down-stairs.  The  girls  were 
standing  exactly  where  he  had  left  them.  Shaking 
a  fist  first  in  one  young  face  and  then  the  other,  he 
said  with  savage  earnestness,  "  If  either  of  you  young 
pelicans  dare  to  bother  that  poor  heart-broken  little 
mother  again  to-night,  I'll  come  over  here  and  skin 
you  alive  with  my  own  hands." 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 
JIM'S  TELEPHONE  RINGS 

As  a  sword-blade  snatched  from  fire  is  thrust  into 
tempering  oil,  so  Jim,  making  his  escape  from  Little 
Sunshine,  plunged  into  the  cooling  night.  Almost  he 
expected  to  hear  himself  hiss. 

The  dog,  vaguely  perturbed,  followed. 

Once  in  the  grateful  darkness,  the  Colonel's  twitch 
ing  lips  went  wide,  drinking  the  clean  air ;  his  head 
was  thrown  far  back.  "God!"  he  cried  out,  and  let 
the  word  shudder  away  into  silence.  Somehow, 
because  of  his  personal  share  in  Ciceley's  humiliation, 
he  felt  betrayed,  —  in  some  curious  way  dishonored. 
In  spite  of  his  threats  of  flagellant  reproof,  he  had 
been  conscious  all  along  of  personal  impotence. 
Ciceley  had  cast  off  the  one  life  belt  which  he  had  to 
throw.  Her  daily  existence,  unless  some  help  from 
within  could  be  given,  must  continue  to  be  subjec 
tion  to  an  unnatural  tryanny. 

"If  it  were  only  Lucille !"  said  the  Colonel  to  him 
self,  rinding  a  sort  of  safety  valve  in  speech.  "But 
the  little  one  too  is  absolutely  in  her  power.  Lucille's 
got  both  of  them  just  where  she  wants  them.  Lord  ! " 

It  was  through  the  "little  one",  he  knew,  that 

95 


96  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

Ciceley's  deepest  hurt  could  come.  She  was  mar 
vellously  like  Ciceley,  a  sort  of  radiant  incarnation 
of  the  mother's  youth. 

But  the  other !  Here  the  Colonel's  teeth  rasped 
audibly.  Lucille  was  Bering  through  and  through ! 
Her  eyes,  with  their  cool,  devilish  challenge,  might 
have  been  Henry's  eyes  as  he  announced  his  easily- 
won  triumph  over  Jim,  with  the  girl  Ciceley. 

Jim's  hand  struck  sideways  at  the  tree-trunk 
nearest.  The  pain  of  the  blow  was  a  relief.  He 
rushed  forward  and,  gaining  an  open  space,  paused. 
Under  the  crowding  trees  he  had  felt  damp  suffocation. 
Now  he  could  see  the  sky,  and  the  heat  of  his  tor 
mented  soul  rose  in  an  escaping  flame.  The  early 
autumn  night  had  spread  to  a  remote,  uniform  blue- 
gray,  the  color  of  an  old  granite  slab  in  a  churchyard. 
The  stars  pricked  through  in  hard,  bright  points. 
To  the  west,  just  over  a  continuous  silhouette  of 
pines,  hung,  by  its  invisible  thread,  a  sharp  new  moon. 
The  tilt  of  its  chin  was  Lucille's  chin  as  she  had  said, 
11  Look  at  her!"  The  Colonel  turned  his  eyes  away, 
and  hurtled  on. 

At  his  own  gate,  Rover,  having  acquired  a  little 
courage  by  the  way,  ventured  a  "woof!"  of  satis 
faction,  and  pushed  his  cold  nose  into  his  master's 
swinging  palm. 

"This  is  a  hell  of  a  world,  Rover,"  groaned  the 
man.  The  feel  of  the  warm,  shaggy  head  which  he 
fondled  brought  his  first  throb  of  comfort.  Together 
they  paced  down  the  center  of  the  ink-black  avenue. 
A  feeble  light  burned  from  the  house,  —  nearly  a 
mile  away,  it  seemed. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  97 

At  the  sound  of  Jim's  heavy  feet  upon  the  steps,  an 
answering  shuffle  within  doors  heralded  the  eager 
approach  of  Uncle  Snow.  One  glance  at  the  set 
face  of  "de  Kunnel"  was  enough. 

"Miss  Ciceley  done  turnt  him  down  ergin!"  was 
the  unerring  intuition.  In  such  affairs  the  old  man 
made  no  mistakes.  The  voice,  now  lifted,  matched 
his  master's  face  in  despairing  gloom. 

"Yo'  supper's  on  de  table,  soon  ez  you  wants  it, 
Marse  Jim." 

"Any  whiskey  out?" 

"No,  sir,  but  I'll  git  a  bottle,"  said  Snow,  retreat 
ing  toward  the  sideboard.  The  "turning-down"  this 
time,  must  have  been  unusually  severe. 

"Well,  do  it  quick  !     And,  Snow  —  " 

"Yass,  Marse  Jim." 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  you  should  be  so  darned 
stingy  with  the  lights?" 

"Nossir." 

"Light  'em  all.     And  the  fire,  too." 

The  old  man  shambled  about,  making  false  starts, 
retracing  steps,  only  to  dive,  with  queer,  sidewise 
motions,  back  along  the  same  direction. 

Jim  strode  up  to  him,  snatching  the  whiskey  bottle 
from  his  hands.  Snow  fell  over  himself  on  his  pre 
cipitate  way  to  the  hearth. 

"There  isn't  a  sign  of  a  glass  on  the  table !"  roared 
Jim.  "Bring  some  water,  too." 

"Lord!  Marse  Jim,"  protested  the  old  servant. 
"How  kin  I  do  ennything  wid  you  bellowin'  at 
me  lak  de  Bull  o'  Bashum  in  de  Bible?  Does  you 
want  yo'  fiah  fust,  or  yo'  water  fust?" 


98  THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 

"Bring  the  water,"  said  Jim,  beginning  to  be 
ashamed  of  his  childish  vehemence.  "I'm  all  shot 
to  pieces,  Snow.  You  mustn't  mind  my  bellowing." 

Forcing  himself  back  into  self-control,  he  turned 
toward  the  table.  At  the  far  end  of  it,  filling  a  seg 
ment  absurdly  small,  were  a  "hunk"  of  cheese,  a 
ham-bone  that  looked  as  if  Rover  had  been  gnawing 
it,  some  cold  potatoes,  and  a  few  slices  of  bread. 
Jim  gazed  upon  the  meager  outlay  in  disgust. 

Old  Snow  brought  in  the  glass  and  a  small  pitcher 
of  water,  and  was  making  his  way  again  toward  the 
hearth  when  Jim  checked  him.  "I've  changed  my 
mind  about  the  fire.  I'm  hot  enough.  You  can  go 
now.  I  want  to  be  alone." 

"Yassur.     But  whar  'bouts  is  I  gwinter  go  to?" 

"The  devil,  for  all  I  care!  And  don't  come  back 
in  here  to-night.  Understand?" 

"Yassur,"  admitted  Snow,  in  a  voice  of  tragedy. 
He  had  never  seen  Jim  in  so  bitter  a  mood  as  this. 
Backing  slowly  toward  the  door  of  the  butler's 
pantry,  his  mournful  eyes  upon  his  Master,  he  had 
just  reached  the  lintel  when  the  telephone,  a  black- 
box,  wall  affair  hanging  in  the  dining  room  just  at 
the  angle  where  old  Snow  now  stood,  rang  with  so 
sharp  a  suddenness,  that  both  figures  jumped. 

Jim,  in  the  act  of  pouring  a  stiff  drink,  rapped  out 
a  stififer  oath.  The  servant  came  to  a  halt.  Without 
a  glance  in  that  direction,  the  Colonel,  determined  to 
ignore  the  interruption,  continued  to  pour,  and  de 
liberately  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips. 

Next  to  writing  business  letters,  Jim  hated  to  use  a 
telephone.  He  spoke  of  it  as  a  "necessary  evil." 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  99 

It  got  on  his  nerves  with  its  arrogance.  It  was 
always  so  cockily  sure  of  its  prey. 

Again  came  its  shrill  summons,  extended  this  time 
to  an  exasperating  length. 

Jim  took  a  second  gulp.  But  Uncle  Snow,  firm  in 
the  discharge  of  what  he  felt  to  be  his  duty, 
said  patiently,  "Yo'  telefoam  is  foamin',  Marse 
Jim." 

"What  do  you  think  I've  got  ears  stuck  to  my 
head  for,  you  old  fool?"  cried  Jim,  laughing  in  spite 
of  himself.  "Git  out,  or  I'll—"  The  old  negro 
ducked  and  ran. 

"Hello!  Hell  —  low!"  Then,  without  pausing 
to  listen,  "  Itsjimroywhatdoyouwant  ? "  all  in  an 
angry  breath. 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  a  feminine  voice,  a 
startled  break  in  its  bright  merriment.  "Are  you 
as  mad  as  all  that?" 

Jim  could  have  sunk  bodily  through  the  polished 
floor. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Ma'am,"  he  managed  to 
articulate.  "I  hadn't  an  idea  it  was  a  lady.  There 
don't  many  ladies  ring  me  up.  I  beg  ten  thousand 
pardons ! " 

"Jim,"  repeated  the  voice,  now  with  a  wonderful 
little  thrill  to  it,  "don't  you  know  who  it  is?" 

"  Good  God  A'mighty,"  exploded  Jim,  again  driven 
beyond  the  limits  of  decorum.  "If  it  isn't  Jule  al 
ready!  Juki  " 

"Right-o!"  rippled  over  the  telephone.  "When 
can  I  see  you?" 

"Where  are  you?" 


ioo  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Down  at  the  New  Battle  House,  having  hard 
chills  of  impatience." 

"Well,  I'll  be  —  "  murmured  Jim,  but  was  recalled 
dynamically  by  the  sudden  query,  "Have  you  any 
thing  on  for  this  evening?" 

"Have  I  anything  on  ?"  gasped  the  Colonel,  who 
had  never  chanced  to  hear  this  special  form  of  social 
badinage.  "Wha  —  wha  —  what  in  the  world  - 

Muffled  but  ecstatic  sounds  assailed  him.  "I 
don't  mean  clothes,  you  goose !  Dates  —  engage 
ments  !  Have  you  a  previous  engagement  for  this 
evening,  Mr.  James  Roy?" 

"Oh,"  breathed  Jim  in  absurd  relief.  "No,  I 
haven't." 

"Then  you  are  to  take  the  very  next  car  for  town. 
Don't  bother  to  ask  for  me  at  the  desk.  I'll  give 
orders  that  you  are  to  be  shown  up  at  once.  Hurry ! " 

"Well,  I'll  be  —   "  again  said  the  man  helplessly. 

"Here,  Jule.  Hold  on!"  he  protested,  nearly 
tearing  the  receiver-hook  from  its  socket.  But 
before  an  answer  could  come,  he  put  it  back. 

Taking  out  his  watch,  he  saw  that  a  car  was  nearly 
due.  In  a  sort  of  daze,  he  went  into  the  big  hallway 
where  on  a  rack  of  antlers  hung  various  battered 
hats,  with  coats  of  a  kindred  shabbiness.  It  was 
characteristic  of  the  man  that  not  once  did  he  think 
of  his  personal  appearance.  His  was  a  singularly 
direct  and  uncomplex  mind,  harboring,  by  preference, 
one  object  at  a  time.  Now  it  was  Jule,  the  dear  old 
Jule  of  his  boyhood  days,  so  close,  after  all  these 
years.  And  Jule  had  wanted  to  see  him  first  of  all ! 

Even  the  poignancy  of  Ciceley's  trouble  faded  a 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  101 

little  in  the  excitement  of  this  new  interest.  And 
yet  the  radiance  might  be  said  to  have  a  fitful  glow. 
The  vision  of  Ciceley's  stricken  face  peered  now  and 
again  from  impinging  shadows. 

Suddenly  he  recalled  what  she  had  said  of  her  per 
sonal  longing  for  Jule.  What  if  the  need  had  risen 
from  something  deeper  than,  as  he  had  fancied,  a 
mere  telepathic  hint  from  him?  In  the  old  days 
there  had  been  few  perplexities,  —  those  trivial  dis 
agreements  and  oppositions  that  loom  so  portentously 
before  the  eyes  of  inexperience,  —  which  Julia's 
keen  insight  and  good  judgment  had  been  unable 
to  unravel. 

"And,  after  all,"  said  Jim  to  himself,  in  pursuance 
of  this  comforting  reflection,  "the  sort  of  a  fix  poor 
Sis  has  gotten  herself  into  doesn't  need  a  man's  help 
so  much  as  that  of  an  older  and  wiser  woman,  just 
like  Jule." 

By  this  he  had  caught  up  a  hat  and  assumed  the 
first  pendent  coat  that  chanced  to  meet  his  careless 
hand.  Rover,  all  eager  anticipation  and  waving 
tail,  prepared  to  follow.  "Nothing  doing,  old  sport," 
cruelly  remarked  his  master,  at  which  the  humbled 
beast,  with  an  oblique  look  of  protest,  turned  and 
trotted  down  the  long,  dark  hall  in  search  of  his 
companion  in  exile  and  ignominy,  Uncle  Snow. 

During  the  long  ride  in,  the  Colonel,  too  restless 
to  sit  quietly,  kept  to  his  feet  on  the  back  platform 
of  the  car,  pulling  vigorously  upon  his  pipe.  With 
each  jolt  of  diminishing  distance,  his  agitation  grew. 
It  was  no  joke,  come  to  think  of  it,  —  this  meeting 
with  a  girl  you  were  "raised  with  ",  after  an  absence 


102  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

of  years !  Lord  !  How  the  time  slid  by !  Only  yester 
day  they  were  all  out  climbing  trees,  and  now  — !  A 
little  ruefully  the  big  hand  went  up  to  graying  tem 
ples.  At  least  there  was  plenty  of  hair  left.  Julia 
had  told  him  that  she  too  was  quite  gray.  He  must 
nerve  himself  at  showing  consternation  when  they 
met.  Probably  she  was  fat  also.  Most  of  the 
middle-aged  women  he  knew  were  fat.  As  the 
saying  is,  they  had  "let  their  figures  go."  Ciceley 
was  a  notable  exception  to  this  depressing  rule,  but 
then,  of  course,  she  would  be.  Ciceley  did  not 
belong  to  categories. 

The  lights  of  the  town  began  to  flash  in  passing. 
Now  they  were  in  the  business  district.  In  another  two 
minutes  they  would  reach  the  Battle  House  corner. 

Jim,  swinging  off  with  the  ease  of  a  boy,  faltered 
on  the  threshold  of  the  wide,  illuminated  main  en 
trance.  The  hotel,  as  such,  was  necessarily  a 
familiar  haunt.  His  Northern  purchasers  all  stopped 
there,  but  if  the  lamentable  truth  must  be  spoken, 
Jim's  previous  visits  had  been  made  chiefly  through 
a  smaller  and  less  conspicuous  door,  one  on  a  side 
street  bearing  the  brief  but  alluring  word,  "Bar." 
He  cast  a  single  wistful  side  look  toward  it  now.  The 
image  of  a  highball,  iced  and  sparkling,  dangled  in 
maddening  allurement  before  his  mental  nose.  The 
Colonel  half  closed  his  eyes,  and  wavered.  If  he 
dared !  But  no,  Jule  would  certainly  perceive  it. 
Women  had  a  sense  of  smell  equal  to  dogs.  He 
mustn't  risk  it,  at  least  on  this  first  meeting.  So, 
squaring  his  broad  shoulders,  he  told  himself  not  to 
be  a  fool  and  marched  defiantly  within. 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  103 

The  countless  electric  lights  of  the  rotunda  immedi 
ately  focussed  upon  him.  In  the  relentless  nucleus, 
he  could  feel  himself  growing  small,  and  all  in  an 
instant  he  realized  the  shabbiness  of  his  attire. 
He  was  glad  that  the  hat,  at  least,  was  remov 
able.  He  jerked  it  off,  crushing  it  hard  under  his 
left  arm. 

Two  agile  bell-boys,  resplendent  in  gilt-touched 
uniforms,  sprang  simultaneously  toward  him.  He 
could  have  kicked  them  both.  Now  the  chief  clerk 
had  seen  him.  Leaning  confidentially  across  the 
curve  of  his  marble-topped  enclosure,  he  called, 
"  Good-evening,  Colonel.  Fine  weather  we're  having. 
Mrs.  Preston  wants  you  to  be  shown  up-stairs  at 
once.  Elijah !  "  in  a  sharp,  commanding  tone  to  one 
of  the  grinning  boys,  "Show  Colonel  Roy  to  515." 

The  hand  that  clutched  the  old  felt  hat  gripped 
harder,  and  Jim  followed  the  vibrant  Elijah  into  the 
elevator.  In  the  slow  progress  upward,  the  boy 
essayed  ingratiating  utterance.  The  Colonel  did 
not  pretend  to  listen,  but  he  knew  the  tone.  In 
absent-minded  fashion  he  inserted  two  fingers  into 
a  waistcoat  pocket,  from  which  they  emerged,  clasp 
ing,  scissors-wise,  a  silver  coin.  Elijah  delicately 
withdrew  his  gaze,  but  a  slightly  knitted  brow  be 
trayed  mathematical  calculation. 

The  Colonel's  thoughts  also  were  active,  but  not 
with  sordid  problems. 

At  the  door  of  Number  515  the  little  negro,  finding 
at  last  a  tongue  for  gratitude,  paused  officiously,  as  if 
to  assure  himself  that  so  beneficent  a  guest  should 
receive  proper  welcome.  This  excellent  intention, 


104  THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 

however,  scattered  before  the  impatient  words,  "All 
right,  'Lijah.  Now  get  out !" 

Alone,  the  Colonel  stood  quite  still  a  moment,  then 
suddenly  forced  himself  to  give  a  vivacious  knock. 

Instantly,  from  the  other  side,  came  a  low  excla 
mation.  He  could  not  doubt  the  note  of  joy.  The 
swish  of  silk  came  toward  him;  the  knob  turned; 
the  door  went  wide;  and  a  tall,  slender  woman, 
whom  surely  in  all  his  life  he  had  never  seen  before, 
smiled  up,  without  speaking,  into  his  astonished  face. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

ClCELEY  AND  THE  "LITTLE  EWE  LAMB" 

THE  largest  bedchamber  of  Little  Sunshine,  the 
one  facing  south  and  east,  was  occupied  jointly  by 
Ciceley's  two  daughters. 

The  open  fireplace,  almost  as  massive  as  the  parlor 
one  down-stairs,  of  which  its  great  chimney  was  a 
continuance,  jutted  far  out  into  the  room,  forming  at 
each  side  a  deep  recess.  In  that  nearest  the  one 
entrance  door,  had  stood  for  years  an  enormous  four- 
poster  bed  brought,  as  was  most  of  the  furniture, 
straight  from  England  in  Grandfather  Bering's  cotton 
ships.  It  still  possessed  the  faded  draperies  of  old 
peacock  chintz,  a  round,  stiff  bolster,  and  in  winter 
a  voluminous  feather  mattress,  little  Sylvia's  special 
joy.  The  mother's  room,  just  opposite,  across  a 
dark,  bare  hall,  was  smaller  and  more  plainly  fur 
nished. 

During  the  years  of  their  childhood  the  girls  had 
slept  together  in  the  huge  bed,  but  recently  Lucille, 
having  become  interested  in  a  series  of  articles  on 
modern  Hygiene  had  declared  companionship  and 
feather  mattresses  alike  unsanitary. 

Although  each  unforeseen  encroachment  upon  her 


106  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

scanty  income  caused  Ciceley  sleepless  nights,  wonder 
ing  how  on  earth  she  was  to  "manage  it",  the  deter 
mined  Lucille  insisted  upon  ordering  for  herself  a 
small  iron  bed,  spotlessly  enameled,  and  with  it  a 
new  and  expensive  mattress  of  fiber.  This  she  had 
placed  in  the  farther  alcove,  directly  beside  a  window. 
Fresh  air,  exercise,  and  diet  had  become  a  passion 
with  the  tall  girl;  and  though  already  she  was  as 
white  and  slim  and  exquisite  as  a  newly  opened  an 
nunciation  lily,  the  treatment  seemed,  in  truth,  to 
add  new  loveliness. 

Little  Sylvia,  who  feared  the  dark  and  hated  to 
sleep  alone,  wept  bitterly  at  first  over  this  desertion. 
She  even  threatened  to  go  in  and  share  her  mother's 
bed.  Ciceley's  heart,  at  this  suggestion,  had  given 
a  throb  of  joy.  Her  lips  parted  in  eagerness  to  second 
it,  when  a  curt,  decisive  "Don't  be  silly,  Sylvia" 
from  the  elder  daughter  put  a  swift  end  to  hope. 

So  the  little  one,  curled  like  a  kitten  in  a  particu 
larly  fluffy  tea-cosey,  remained  the  sole  tenant  of  a 
bed  that  could  have  held  a  dozen  like  her;  and 
Lucille,  heroically  pillowless,  carefully  keeping  always 
those  postures  commended  by  modern  science, 
dreamed  her  long,  quiet  dreams  alone. 

On  the  morning  following  the  dreadful  scene  in 
the  dining  room,  Sylvia  awoke  unusually  early.  Her 
first  conscious  thought  was  a  stab  of  guilt  that  she 
could  have  slept  at  all.  She  sat  up  instantly,  listen 
ing  to  hear  if  Lucille  stirred.  From  the  narrow  bed 
came  not  even  the  sound  of  breathing.  Cautiously 
the  little  one  climbed  down,  lowering  herself  by 
degrees  over  the  edge  of  a  warm,  feathery  cliff.  The 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  107 

chill  of  morning  caught  at  her  bare  ankles ;  and,  as 
the  pink  toes  touched  the  floor,  they  curled  spas 
modically.  "Ugh!"  broke  in  a  stifled  cry  from  their 
owner's  lips. 

Once  safely  down,  she  began  to  dress  quickly.  An 
other  restriction  lately  imposed  by  Lucille  was  that 
all  their  articles  of  clothing  should  not  only  be  kept 
in  different  bureaus,  but  that  the  bureaus  themselves 
should  stand  as  far  apart  as  the  given  space  allowed. 

"I  do  wish,  Sylvia,"  was  a  frequent  expostulation, 
uttered  generally  in  a  tone  of  patient  hopelessness, 
"that  you  would  ever  learn  to  keep  your  things 
in  your  own  part  of  the  room!" 

The  little  one,  usually  restless  and  inwardly  protes- 
tive  against  such  discipline,  found  herself,  for  once, 
in  keen  accord  with  it.  The  whole  process  of  dress 
ing,  even  to  the  taking  from  its  allotted  hook  of  her 
old  red  sweater,  had  been  accomplished  well  without 
Lucille's  line  of  vision.  Still  unseen  and  presumably 
unheard,  she  slipped  through  the  door,  and  went 
across  the  hall  to  that  of  her  mother. 

A  soft  turning  of  the  knob,  followed  by  a  push, 
told  her  that  the  inexorable  bolt  had  not  been  with 
drawn.  She  ventured  the  softest  of  raps,  and  stood 
for  a  moment,  hoping.  The  room  within  was  even 
stiller  than  the  one  she  had  just  quitted.  With  a 
shake  of  the  brown  head,  and  a  little  sigh  of  disap 
pointment,  she  tiptoed  along  the  hall  and  down  the 
stairway.  j 

The  lower  floor  of  the  house  was  cold  and  somehow 
amazingly  desolate.  It  was  evident  that  Mammy  had 
not  yet  been  in.  Sylvia  opened  the  back  door,  and, 


io8  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

with  an  audible  gasp  at  the  chill,  misty  breath  of 
morning,  ran  along  an  old  flagstone  walk  toward  the 
warmth  and  comfort  of  the  kitchen. 

The  old  stove  purred  and  trembled  with  the  fervor 
of  a  recently  created  fire.  Mammy  Nycie,  the 
dusky  goddess  of  this  humble  realm,  stood  at  a  pine 
board  table,  kneading  biscuit  dough.  She  did  not 
turn  her  head  as  Sylvia  entered.  "Mammy!" 
shivered  the  girl,  nearing  a  large  brown  elbow, 
"Mammy,  I'm  freezing!" 

"What's  got  de  matter  wid  yo'  bed,  all  of  a  sud- 
dint?"  demanded  Mammy  unkindly. 

"Nothing.  Only  I  couldn't  stay  in  it.  I  don't 
see  how  I  ever  went  to  sleep !  I'm  so  worried, 
Mammy.  It's  —  it's  —  Mother." 

Mammy  flung  down  the  moist  dough  with  a  snap, 
and,  wheeling  ponderously,  planted  a  huge,  closed 
fist  upon  each  rotund  hip.  "An'  Gawd  knows  hit's 
erbout  time  one  uf  you  wuz  beginnin'  to  think  about 
yo'  mudder,"  she  burst  out.  Then,  with  a  tone  of 
almost  primitive  passion,  "What  you  gals  gone  done 
to  my  baby?" 

Sylvia  cowered  into  a  chair.  "It  wasn't  me  did 
anything!"  she  protested. 

"Hit's  all  de  same.  What  Lucille  does,  you  do!" 
vociferated  Mammy.  "An'  hit  ain't  Lucille  all  by 
hersef  what's  hurt  her  like  she  is  hurt." 

Sylvia's  brown  eyes  fell. 

"I  didn't  say  nothin'  las'  night  when  I  brought  in 
yo'  supper,"  Mammy  went  on  more  humanly.  "I 
sensed  dey  wuz  sumpin'  I  hatter  find  out  fust.  And 
whilst  you  two  wuz  stufnn'  yo' selves  — 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  109 

"I  never  ate  one  mouthful!  I  was  crying  all  the 
time,  and  Lucille  was  eating  and  scolding  me!" 
Sylvia  broke  in,  stung  to  defence  by  the  injustice. 

"Whilst  you  wuz  stumn'  yo'selves,"  resumed 
Mammy  implacably,  her  large  white  eyeballs  rolling 
menace  to  a  second  interruption,  "I  fixed  up  ez  nice 
er  little  bait  o'  supper  ez  ennybody  could  fix,  and  took 
it  up  to  my  baby's  do'.  An'  when  I  got  to  dat 
do'  -  She  paused  dramatically.  "Do  you  know 

what  I  foun'?" 

"I  know;  it  was  locked!"  said  Sylvia,  beginning 
to  cry. 

Mammy  drew  a  long,  deep  breath.  "Yes,  hit 
wuz  shet  an'  bolted.  De  fust  time  I  knowed  Miss 
Ciceley's  do'  had  a  bolt.  Hit  wuz  shet  against  me, 
aginst  her  Mammy,  what  done  love  an'  nuss  her 
sence  de  day  she  wuz  bawn.  And  when  I  seen  dat  —  " 
again  she  paused,  and  let  a  hostile  glance  fall  on  the 
culprit,  "I  knowed  dat  somethin'  mo'  dan  onery 
sassiness  had  tukken  place  wid  her." 

"Did  you  ever  get  in?"  questioned  the  little  one. 
"I  tried  —  twice  —  after  Lucille  was  asleep  — 
but—" 

"Did  I  ebber  git  in!"  snorted  the  old  woman. 
"Me!  I  wasn't  gwineter  leave  until  I  did.  When 
Miss  Ciceley  didn't  answer,  I  jes'  nachally  told  her 
thoo  de  keyhole  dat  I  was  gwineter  bust  dat  do'  into 
kindlin'  wood !" 

Sylvia  stared  up  in  wonder  and  admiration  at  such 
prowess,  but  Mammy  was  not  yet  to  be  conciliated. 

"When  you  got  in,"  whispered  Sylvia,  "what  — 
how  did  mother  seem?  Did  she — " 


no  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"She  wuz  standin'  jes'  inside,"  said  Mammy, 
watching  almost  cruelly  to  see  the  effect  of  her  words. 
"Her  po'  little  han's  wuz  helt  up  crost  her,  lak  dis." 
The  narrator  clutched  huge,  dough-splotched  mahog 
any-colored  hands  across  her  breast,  in  illustration. 
"She  jes'  stood  dare,  wid  her  big  eyes  on  me,  er 
shakin'  an'  er  shiv'in'  lak  a  wild  rabbit  in  er  trap. 
When  I  sot  down  dat  tray  and  thoo  my  arms  eroun' 
her,  she  helt  on  tight,  an'  sez, '  Hole  me  close,  Mammy 
—  closer  dan  ever  you  did  in  all  yo'  life  befo', '  she 
sez.  'Fer,'  she  sez,  'I  think  my  heart  is  broke!'1 

Long  before  the  termination  of  this  speech,  little 
Sylvia's  face  had  been  covered.  Now  the  slight  figure 
in  the  old  kitchen  chair  rocked  to  and  fro,  giving  at 
each  forward  movement  a  little  moan  of  suffering. 

The  old  woman  stared  down  gloomily.  She  was 
conscious  of  the  satisfaction  the  picture  brought. 
Yet  the  tousled  brown  head  was  terribly  like  that  of 
the  "baby"  whose  battle  she  was  fighting.  She 
steeled  her  kind  heart  against  the  hint  of  softness, 
and  went  on. 

"An'  when  yo'  maw  sed  dat,"  she  emphasized, 
"I  know'd  only  too  well  dat  you  is  played  some  part 
in  hit.  Lucille  is  allays  obstrep'rus.  We  don't 
expect  nothin'  mo'.  But  you !  You  an'  yo'  maw  is 
lak  David  an'  his  little  ewe  lamb !" 

"Oh,  Mammy,  Mammy!"  the  little  one  sobbed 
out.  "Don't  be  mean  to  me  any  more.  I  can't 
stand  it!  Isn't  there  something  I  could  do?  Some 
way  I  could  show  mother  that  I  was  sorry?  Won't 
you  help  me  find  a  way?" 

Mammy,    apparently    unrelenting,    began   to   roll 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  in 

out  the  biscuit  dough.  Sylvia,  gathering  sudden 
courage,  put  her  small  hand,  quite  brown  by  contrast, 
sheer  in  the  middle  of  the  cool,  waxen  surface. 

"You've  got  to  help  me,  Mammy.  I  am  your 
baby,  too,  and  I  don't  believe  that  even  mother  is 
any  more  miserable  than  I  am  right  now." 

Before  this  appeal  and  the  brown  eyes,  Ciceley's 
own,  lifted  in  an  ecstasy  of  pleading,  the  last  ferocious 
battlement  of  Mammy's  rage  went  down.  A  sob 
rose  in  her  throat,  giving,  when  she  spoke,  a  deep  and 
vibrant  sweetness  to  the  words.  "Honey,"  she  said, 
looking  down  with  eyes  now  suffused  in  tears,  "hit's 
a  bad  thing  to  hurt  enny  heart  ez  tender  an'  lovin' 
as  yo'  maw,  let  erlone  dat  she  is  yo'  maw." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!  I  know  it  is,  Mammy.  I  am 
going  to  try  never  to  hurt  her  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

"You  ain't  never  gwineter  pay  no  'tention  to  dat 
sassy  Lucille,  even  when  she  tries  to  egg  you  on?" 
bargained  Mammy. 

"No,  I'm  not !  I  will  just  think  of  mother.  What 
can  I  do  to  show  her,  now !  " 

All  at  once  the  troubled  black  face  broke  into 
smiles  of  encouragement. 

"I  shouldn't  be  supprised,"  she  began,  her  voice 
now  matching  her  lightened  expression,  "  ef  a  little 
waiter  all  fixed  up  wid  a  clean  napkin  —  and  one  o'  de 
purtiest  china  cups  —  an'  some  fresh,  steamin' 
coffee—" 

She  needed  to  go  no  further.  Sylvia,  with  rain 
bows  instead  of  tears  on  her  long  lashes,  was  halfway 
to  the  door.  "I'll  go  and  get  the  cup  and  napkin 
right  away!"  she  cried,  in  transit. 


ii2  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

With  incredible  promptitude  she  was  back.  "Is 
the  coffee  finished  yet?"  she  interrogated,  standing 
on  tiptoe  beside  the  stove  in  order  to  sniff  at  closer 
range  the  steam  just  issuing  from  a  granite  pot. 

"Not  yit,"  beamed  Mammy.  "An'  dey  is  sugar 
in  a  little  sugar-bowl,  an'  cream  in  dat  littlest  pitcher 
to  be  got.  An'  min'  you  be  keerful  'bout  skimmin' 
off  all  my  cream!"  she  admonished,  reverting  by 
instinct  to  the  tone  of  the  autocrat. 

Sylvia  nodded,  and  in  a  happy  whirlwind  flew  upon 
the  new  errands. 

"Here  —  here  are  both  of  them,"  she  announced 
breathlessly.  "And  while  you  are  pouring  the  coffee 
out,  I  am  going  to  run  into  the  garden  and  see  if  I 
can't  find  a  big  pink  rose  with  the  dew  on  it.  Mother 
will  love  to  see  a  rose  upon  her  tray !" 

"She  will  love  better  dan  enny  rose  de  purty  little 
face  over  dat  tray,"  thought  Mammy,  with  deep 
wisdom,  but  she  did  not  voice  the  thought. 

The  charming  outfit  being  at  last  complete,  little 
Sylvia,  quite  sobered  with  the  responsibility  of  carry 
ing  it  alone,  started  with  measured  steps  along  the 
flagstones. 

"Look  out  an'  don't  stump  yo'  toe  on  dat  lump 
what  de  fool  coal-man  broke  tryin'  to  drive  his 
wagon  over  yistiddy,"  warned  Mammy  from  her 
doorway. 

That  danger  skirted,  Mammy  retired  within,  her 
mind  upon  her  biscuits.  Catching  up  the  rolling-pin  as 
if  it  were  a  weapon  of  defence,  she  wiped  it  on  a  corner 
of  her  apron,  at  the  same  time  giving  her  eyes  two 
furtive  dabs.  Then  the  wooden  implement  was 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  113 

lifted  high  in  both  hands,  and  brought  down  on  the 
dough  with  a  force  that  made  the  windows  rattle. 
With  her  first  push,  Mammy  broke  forth  into  song, 

"In  eighteen  hundered  an'  ninety-nine, 

De  Lord  turnt  water  into  wine. 
In  nineteen  hundered  an'  ninety-fo' 
He  pushed  dem  virgints  thoo  de  do'. " 

Now  she  was  ready  to  cut  out  the  biscuits.  An 
empty  yeast-powder  can  served  this  purpose  well. 
Each  downward  motion  came  with  the  exactness 
and,  to  judge  from  Mammy's  scowl,  the  vindictive- 
ness  inherent  in  the  falling  of  a  guillotine.  But  it 
was  only  Mammy's  way  of  working.  Her  childlike 
mind  was  one  to  concentrate,  with  primitive  intensity, 
upon  the  occupation  of  the  moment.  The  low 
contralto  crooning  of  her  gospel  hymns  was  part 
of  it. 

Now,  as  the  cutter  fell,  each  flaccid  disc  engendered 
was,  in  her  thought,  an  enemy  overcome.  Still 
heavily  frowning,  she  ranged  her  limp  victims  with 
care  in  the  long,  black  rectangle  of  the  baking  pan, 
and  was  moving  toward  the  stove  as  to  a  crematory, 
when  suddenly  her  gaze  encountered  the  face  of  the 
kitchen  clock. 

"My  Gawd!"  she  exclaimed  aloud,  her  vague 
triumph  fading  before  its  accusation,  "ef  it  ain't  atter 
sebben,  an'  not  a  fiah  in  de  house  done  made  ! " 

Meanwhile,  the  Little  Ewe  Lamb,  having  re- 
entered  the  chill  loneliness  of  the  back  hall,  felt  all 
at  once  the  fresh  glow  of  her  enterprise  change  into 
something  unpleasantly  like  fear.  What  if  Lucille 


ii4  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

had  missed  her,  and  being  suspicious  —  for  Lucille's 
wits  were  keen  —  of  this  voluntary  and  independent 
desire  to  make  amends,  should  even  now  be  lying  in 
wait,  primed  with  her  quick,  scornful,  "Don't  be 
silly,  Sylvia!"  to  annihilate  it  all! 

The  little  one  stepped  very  softly.  Her  ears, 
straining  in  apprehension,  listened  for  sounds  along 
the  stairs  and  in  Lucille's  room.  The  mother's  door, 
at  least,  had  been  reached  without  intervention. 
She  stood  panting  a  little,  and  then,  both  hands 
being  filled,  struck  the  lower  panel  with  her  foot. 

"Mother,"  she  whispered,  leaning  close  to  the 
crack. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  closed  door  in  front 
of  her  and  that  across  the  hall  were  equally  dumb. 

"Mother!"  she  then  cried  out  quite  clearly,  ven 
turing  all  upon  one  moment's  cast.  "  It  is  me,  Mother. 
It's  Sylvia.  I  have  brought  you  up  some  coffee. 
Please  let  me  in,  quick,  —  quick !" 

On  the  last  word,  the  bolt  grated  back.  Sylvia 
slipped  in,  at  which  the  other,  obeying  the  unspoken 
thought  in  each  beating  heart,  slid  the  bolt  back  into 
place. 

With  that  sound  and  its  decree  of  isolation,  a  curious 
thing  happened.  Neither  of  the  two  could  find  a 
word  for  speech.  Their  eyes  were  instinctively 
averted.  An  insidious  sense  of  embarrassment,  al 
most  of  hostility,  grew  in  the  quiet  room.  It  was  as 
if  two  strangers  had,  for  a  common  misdemeanor, 
been  suddenly  constrained. 

Ciceley,  who  had  begun  to  feel  the  very  boards 
beneath  her  bare  feet  waveringly  insecure,  made  her 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  115 

way  back  a  little  unsteadily  to  the  just  quitted  ^bed, 
where,  keeping  her  face  still  averted,  she  drew  the 
covering  high.  ^ 

The  little  one  took  a  few  steps,  and  paused. 

"I've  —  I've  brought  some  coffee,"  she  stammered. 

"It  was  very  good  of  you,"  came  from  the  stranger 
in  the  bed.  "Will  you  place  it  on  this  little  table?" 

Sylvia  obeyed,  not  without  a  few  frightened  shiv- 
erings  of  china. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  low,  courteous  voice.  It's 
possessor  did  not  turn. 

Sylvia,  backing  slowly  away,  encountered  the 
corner  of  the  footboard,  and,  not  having  the  energy 
to  resist  the  impact,  sat  down.  At  the  protesting 
squeak  of  the  old  spring  mattress,  she  tried  to  jump 
up,  but  failed.  Now  her  eyes,  wide,  frightened,  and 
vaguely  incredulous,  fixed  themselves  on  her  mother. 

Ciceley  was  lying  with  her  face  toward  a  window. 
The  old-fashioned  green  shutters,  still  drawn  close, 
had  two  slats  missing.  Through  the  aperture  a  shaft 
of  morning  light  streamed  in,  and  lay  like  a  hand  on 
Ciceley's  throat,  just  where  the  coarse,  serviceable 
nightdress  bared  it.  The  girl  found  herself  gazing 
wonderingly.  Somehow  she  had  never  thought  of 
her  mother  having  a  throat  like  that,  a  throat  soft, 
sweet,  and  rounded,  more  fit  for  a  setting  of  delicate 
lace  than  the  dull  high-collared  black  which  invari 
ably  surrounded  it.  The  chin  was  tilted  back  a 
little.  It,  too,  was  firm  and  pink  and  round. 

"Mother!"  the  girl  cried  out  impulsively. 

Ciceley's  mouth  quivered.  She  caught  her  under- 
lip  between  her  teeth. 


n6  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Mother,  I'm  sorry!" 

Ciceley  sat  upright.  Still  she  shrank  from  meeting 
her  daughter's  eyes.  She  turned  toward  the  tray 
and  for  the  first  time  seeing  the  exquisite  peace 
offering  of  the  dewy  rose,  caught  it  up  and  held  it,  for 
a  moment,  to  her  hot  cheek.  The  tears  were  coming 
and  she  did  not  want  them  yet.  Swallowing  back 
a  sob,  she  managed  to  say  quite  calmly,  "  It  is  beauti 
ful.  Please  put  it  in  the  vase  under  your  father's 
picture.  I  will  try  to  drink  the  nice  coffee  you  have 
brought." 

Sylvia,  thankful  for  definite  occupation,  sprang 
toward  the  rose. 

The  wall  space  directly  across  from  the  foot  of 
Ciceley's  bed  had  been,  as  long  as  her  children  could 
remember,  a  sort  of  devotional  shrine.  In  the  center 
hung  an  enlarged  photograph  of  Henry  Bering,  a  face 
spirited,  indubitably  handsome,  and  with  a  sort  of 
weak  daring  which  makes  its  chief  appeal  to  immature 
young  girls.  Under  it  was  a  small  wooden  bracket 
fashioned  by  him  during  the  jig-saw  period  of  boy 
hood,  and  upon  this  stood  a  flower  vase,  never  allowed 
to  go  untenanted. 

At  each  side  of  the  large  picture  were  groups  of 
smaller  ones,  those  to  the  right  of  Lucille  in  various 
stages  of  infancy,  childhood,  and  young  womanhood, 
while  to  the  left  was  hung  a  similar  display  of  Sylvia. 

A  large  crewel  motto,  "Thy  Will  Be  Done",  worked 
in  purple  wool  on  perforated  paper  and  framed  in  a 
wide  black  border,  crowned  this  pathetic  revelation 
of  fidelity. 

To  little  Sylvia  and  presumably  to  Lucille,  the 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  117 

exhibit  had  become  so  much  a  part  of  ordinary 
visible  life  that  it  had  long  since  ceased  to  have  a 
deeper  meaning  than,  for  instance,  the  pattern  of  the 
faded  wall  paper,  or  the  number  of  cracks  in  the 
floor. 

But  through  the  loosened  fibers  of  this  troubled 
morning,  the  usual  was  slipping  away.  Even  to 
herself  Sylvia  had  become  weirdly  unfamiliar.  Her 
little  universe  had  suddenly  disintegrated :  from  its 
readjustment  anything  might  come. 

Holding  the  rose  as  if  it  were  the  traditional  spar 
of  safety,  she  walked  toward  her  father's  picture. 

From  the  vase  she  took  out  a  fading  sprig  of  sweet- 
olive,  and,  setting  the  rose  in  its  stead,  clasped  her 
loose  hands  in  front  of  her,  and  remained  looking  into 
the  pictured  semblance.  Ciceley,  knowing  herself 
unobserved,  watched  eagerly. 

Without  turning,  Sylvia  said,  "I  wish  that  father 
had  not  died." 

A  shiver  ran  through  her  listener's  heart.  Perhaps 
in  that  one  intuitive  cry  the  little  one  had  revealed 
the  cause  of  this  bitter  failure ;  for  that  she  had  failed, 
Ciceley  was  now  all  too  sure.  Life  had  been  too 
great  a  struggle  to  maintain  alone.  All  of  herself, 
her  hopes,  her  faith,  her  personal  happiness,  she  had 
poured  into  the  crystal  vase  of  motherhood,  and  this, 
by  a  few  harsh  words,  had  been  broken.  In  an 
existence  narrowed  to  the  limits  of  a  few  predominant 
actualities,  the  trivial  takes  on  the  semblance  of 
finality.  Ciceley  had  no  perspective.  Hers  was  a 
mandrake  nature,  that  sent  forked  roots  into  the 
shallowest  soil. 


n8  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

All  through  these  later  years  she  had  deliberately 
blinded  herself  to  Lucille's  growing  arrogance.  Others 
had  warned  her,  but  to  their  words,  though  kindly 
meant,  she  had  been  deaf  as  well  as  blind.  Even  the 
promptings  of  her  own  fears  had  been  smothered. 
She  had  refused  to  credit  suspicions  in  themselves 
incredible.  Now,  at  one  blow,  she  was  stripped,  dis 
closed  —  a  plant  uptorn  and  flung  to  the  mercy  of 
the  pavement.  In  proportion  to  the  depth  of  her 
cringing  self-deception,  she  seemed  now,  in  the  agony 
of  awakening,  helplessly  destroyed. 

The  climax  of  the  intimate,  domestic  tragedy  had 
been  a  climax  possible  only  to  limited  perceptions. 
Lucille's  white  fury,  her  words,  her  scornful  looks, 
burned,  as  they  were,  upon  the  retina  of  Ciceley's 
heart,  should  not  have  been  sufficient  cause  for  such 
seemingly  final  desolation. 

A  dim  realization  of  this  found  place  among  the 
unstable  images  of  her  bewildered  mind.  Her  reason 
leaned  toward  it;  but  the  obsession  of  motherhood, 
nourished  on  fallacies,  guarded  by  chronic  refusal  to 
look  beyond  its  glimmering  confines,  had  been  Cice 
ley's  too  long.  Now,  in  her  hesitance,  the  phantom 
tide  rose  higher.  She  had  no  steady  hand  of  logic 
with  which  to  grasp  a  vanishing  reality.  Instead  of 
this,  the  luminous  outline,  half-submerged,  took  on 
the  form  of  excuse  for  her  daughter. 

"After  all,"  she  reflected,  and  with  the  thought  a 
great  relief,  the  sensation  of  being  received  again  into 
a  safe  and  familiar  embrace,  came  over  her,  "it  was 
not  so  much  Lucille's  fault  as  that  of  Jim." 

Eagerly  she  elaborated  the  new   and   comforting 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  119 

verdict.  Yes,  surely  it  was  his  presence,  forced 
against  Ciceley's  judgment  and  her  openly  expressed 
command,  —  it  was  his  angry  words  and  merciless 
denunciations  which  not  unnaturally  had  stung  the 
high-spirited  girl  out  of  all  semblance  to  her  real 
self.  "I  might  as  well  hold  the  ravings  of  delirium 
against  her,"  thought  the  little  mother,  and  with  it 
the  blessed  feeling  of  relief  grew  deeper.  If  only 
people  —  and  by  people  she  meant  the  weighed-and- 
found-wanting  Jim  —  would  allow  her  to  manage 
her  daughters  in  her  own  way ! 

The  human  heart  is  capable  of  nimble  and  at  times 
incredible  evasions.  The  emotions,  where  guidance 
of  will  is  weak,  play  often  a  juggler's  part.  So  was 
it  now  with  Ciceley.  All  of  the  hurt,  the  latent, 
unbearable  resentment  against  Lucille  which  had  been 
the  night's  grimacing  horror,  went  in  a  flash  of  trans 
ference  to  the  image  of  Colonel  Jim.  His  tenderness 
she  forgot.  All  women,  even  the  gentlest,  have  some 
where  in  their  natures  an  atavistic  fiber  of  cruelty. 
Ciceley  now  dwelt  with  relish  on  the  fact  that  she  had 
so  definitely  refused  to  marry  him.  Last  night  she 
had  grieved  at  the  thought  of  paining  him ;  now  she 
was  glad. 

She  looked  straight  at  her  husband's  picture.  On 
the  handsome,  slightly  sneering  face,  she  caught  the 
gleam  of  her  own  triumphant  satisfaction.  All  at  once 
she  felt  strong,  capable  of  dealing  with  any  situation. 

Sylvia,  after  receiving  no  response  to  her  plaintive 
remark,  had  sunk  down  to  a  chair.  From  the  slight 
motions  of  her  bowed  shoulders,  Ciceley  knew  that 
she  was  weeping. 


i2o  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Sylvia,  come  here,"  she  commanded. 

For  answer,  the  sobs  deepened.  A  flood  of  ex 
quisite  yearning  swept  through  the  mother's  heart. 

"Sylvia,  my  little  girl  —  my  littlest  girl,"  she  cried 
out,  "come  to  the  mother  who  loves  you  better  than 
anything  in  the  whole  world." 

Sylvia  arose  at  this,  and  neared  the  bed  stumblingly, 
wiping  her  eyes  on  the  sleeve  of  her  old  red  sweater. 
Ciceley  held  out  her  arms.  At  that  moment  they 
were  as  alike  as  two  roses,  blown  but  a  day  apart, 
upon  the  same  branch. 

"Curl  up  here  on  the  bed  near  me,"crooned  Ciceley, 
"just  as  you  used  to  do.  Nothing  must  come  be 
tween  you  and  your  mother,  darling." 

Sylvia,  her  young  face  bright,  was  about  to  obey 
when  from  the  hall  came  Lucille's  peremptory  voice. 
"Sylvia,  where  are  you?" 

Sylvia  stood  upright,  caught  her  breath,  and  turned 
instinctively  toward  the  closed  door. 

"Sylvia,"  warned  Ciceley,  from  the  bed. 

Now  the  knob  rattled  impatiently.  "Why,  what 
on  earth  —  "  murmured  a  voice  in  evident  surprise ; 
then,  with  a  new  note  of  sharpness,  "Sylvia!" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  little  one,  not  realizing  that 
she  spoke. 

Ciceley  sank  back  to  watch  her. 

"Hadn't  I  better — ?"  the  child  almost  gasped. 
Without  waiting  for  the  mother's  dictum,  she  ran  to 
the  door,  unbolted  it,  and  held  it  at  a  narrow  aperture. 

"Come  along.  Don't  be  silly.  I  want  my  break 
fast,"  declared  Lucille,  catching  her  by  the  arm. 

The  little  one  looked  back.     "Mother,"  she  cried. 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  121 

In  face  and  voice  alike  were  protesting,  a  pleading  to 
be  forgiven  for  yielding  to  a  stronger  force. 

Lucille,  not  noticing  her  mother,  reiterated  in  a 
low,  fierce  tone,  "Come!" 

"Go  —  go,  then  —  both  of  you,"  cried  Ciceley. 
"Shut  the  door  after  you." 

When  they  were  gone,  she  lay  still  for  a  long,  long 
time. 


CHAPTER  NINE 
THE  WOMAN 

,THE  pause  that  followed  Julia's  opening  of  her  door 
gave  apparently  no  thought  to  time.  Had  its  ces 
sation  depended  on  Jim's  initiative,  it  might  have 
gone  on  forever. 

The  slight  moving  of  the  woman's  gray-clad  figure 
at  last  broke  the  spell.  Jim,  wrenching  his  gaze 
away,  strode  forward ;  at  which  his  companion  softly 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

He  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  charming  drawing- 
room  furniture,  —  white  and  pink  and  gold.  No 
focussed  electricity  was  here  to  daunt  him.  The 
soft,  alluring  radiance,  evenly  distributed,  might 
have  been  filtered  through  the  petals  of  the  great 
sheaf  of  Brabant  roses  standing  on  the  center  table. 
Sofas  and  deeply  cushioned  chairs  invited  him  on 
every  hand. 

The  hostess,  who  had  been  watching  breathlessly, 
now  showed  a  faint  hint  of  amusement.  She  tried  to 
clear  her  throat,  but  no  sound  came.  Silence  grew 
tense.  Then,  as  if  impelled,  the  Colonel  veered 
slowly  around,  and  let  deliberate  eyes  rest  on  his 
companion's  face. 

122 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  123 

"So  it  is  you,  after  all!  It's  Jule,"  he  breathed, 
and  with  the  words  came  a  long  sigh,  as  if  a  burden 
had  fallen. 

"Of  course  it's  Jule!  What  did  you  expect? 
Do  you  find  me  so  terribly  altered?" 

"Altered!"  repeated  Jim.  "If  it  wasn't  for  your 
eyes —  But  what  in  God's  name,"  he  broke  out, 
"have  you  been  doing  to  yourself?" 

Now  on  her  face  came  a  deeper  tinge  of  pink.  The 
admiration  in  his  eyes  and  voice  was  unmistakable. 

"It  isn't,  then,"  she  hesitated  archly,  "that  I 
have  grown  so  old  —  or  so  much  uglier?" 

"Old!  Ugly!"  flouted  Jim.  "Why,  you're  a 
queen !  That's  why  the  first  sight  of  you  —  You 
never  used  to  be  pretty!"  he  finished  crudely,  at 
which  she  gave  a  merry,  satisfied  laugh. 

"There  isn't  any  room  for  doubting  you  to  be  — 
just  Jim!" 

"Unfortunately  there's  not,"  grinned  he.  "But 
just  look  at  my  temples  —  white  as  Uncle  Snow ! 
And  I'm  gettin'  fat!  The  way  my  clothes  pull  on 
me  is  something  awful!"  He  tugged  ruefully  at  the 
buttonless  gap  in  the  center  of  his  waistcoat. 

"Well,"  admitted  Julia,  with  mischievous  eyes, 
"your  clothes  might  be  improved.  Fortunately, 
that's  easy!  Come  sit  down.  I  want  to  talk. 
But  first — "  Now  she  came  swiftly  up  to  him. 
Ease,  grace,  and  a  sort  of  conscious  nobility  moved 
in  the  air  with  her.  "Do  you  realize,"  she  demanded, 
a  look  of  beautiful  and  loving  candor  on  the  upturned 
face,  "that  we  haven't  even  shaken  hands?" 

"No  more  we  have!"  he  cried,  and,  seizing  in  his 


124  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

own  rough  paws  the  two  exquisitely-kept  members 
held  toward  him,  crushed  them  to  a  numbing  pain. 

"Do  you  know,  Jule?"  he  confided  impulsively, 
"I  honestly  believe  I  have  never  been  as  glad  to  see 
anybody  as  I  am  right  now.  You  make  me  feel  alive 
all  over !  I  sho'  would  like  to  kiss  you ! " 

"And  I  sho'  would  like  you  to,"  she  responded 
instantly,  lifting  her  face  to  his.  There  was  no  hint  of 
self-consciousness  or  coquetry  in  her  frank  surrender. 

He  pressed  his  lips  against  her  cheek.  It  was 
resilient  —  smooth  —  cool  —  the  cheek  of  a  girl.  In 
her  nearness  he  perceived  the  same  intangible,  vaguely 
intellectual  fragrance  that  had  breathed  from  her 
morning's  letter. 

He  held  her  close,  and  again  would  have  kissed  her, 
but  she  drew  back  and  laughed,  not  quite  steadily. 
"No!  Once  is  quite  enough!  It  has  been  a  long, 
long  time  since  I  let  a  man  do  that !  Now  we  must 
sit  down  and  talk.  Here,  take  this  big  armchair. 
You'll  find  it  comfy." 

As  he  obeyed,  looking  just  a  little  dazed,  his  hostess, 
with  a  swift,  decisive  gesture,  drew  a  second  chair 
close.  "Now,"  she  exclaimed,  with  almost  childish 
satisfaction,  "this  is  fine!  The  next  thing  is  to 
light  your  pipe.  Oh,  you  needn't  put  on  that  inno 
cent  expression.  I  can  see  the  end  of  one  sticking 
out  of  your  coat  pocket !" 

"B-b-but  to  smoke  in  here  —  in  a  lady's  parlor," 
demurred  the  Colonel.  Ancient  objurgation  from 
old  Mrs.  Rogers  anent  the  profanation  of  her  stately 
drawing-room  darted  to  the  surface  of  his  mind.  His 
questioning  gaze  was  troubled,  but  distinctly  hopeful. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  125 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  with  me,"  she  encouraged 
brightly.  "I  like  to  talk  to  a  man  when  he  is  smok 
ing.  A  man  with  his  favorite  pipe,  and  a  woman 
sewing  on  baby  clothes  represent,  in  my  opinion, 
the  two  nuclei  of  absolute  human  self-realization." 

"I  say,  Jule,"  ventured  her  companion,  in  a  voice 
slightly  clouded  with  awe,  after  a  few  thoughtful 
puffs  had  aided  him  to  digest  this  unusual  statement, 
"you  haven't  gone  in  for  the  high-brow  stuff,  —  New 
Thought  —  emancipated  women  —  and  all  that  rot, 
have  you?" 

"If  you  mean  to  ask,"  evaded  Julia,  "whether  you 
see  before  you  an  acknowledged  bluestocking,  or  a 
bomb-throwing  Suffragette,  I  can  ease  your  mind  at 
once.  Most  certainly  you  do  not!  As  for  my  in 
terest  in  emancipated  women,"  she  went  on  more 
slowly,  her  grave,  considering  eyes  on  his,  "there, 
I'll  admit,  you  touch  something  real.  I  have  come 
to  believe  that '  emancipation ',  as  it  is  called,  is  seldom 
sought  by  the  women  who  are  supposed  to  possess 
it,  and  is  equally  as  seldom  desired.  It  is  a  hard 
condition  imposed  from  without.  All  women,  all 
real  women,  know  that  personal  happiness  conies  to 
them  only  along  the  old,  established  thoroughfares 
of  home,  and  love,  and  children,  —  most  of  all,  love. 
Make  no  mistake  about  that!  But  this  sort  of 
happiness  is  not  for  every  woman.  In  this  lies  their 
tragedy !  And,  Jim,"  here  she  bent  forward,  her 
eyes  and  voice  taking  on  the  appeal  so  dear  to  the 
heart  of  man,  "it  is  because  I  know  this  that  it  seems 
to  me  neither  unfeminine  nor  illogical  for  women  who 
find  themselves  out  in  the  world,  doing  a  man's  work, 


126  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

paying  taxes,  managing  property,  serving  the  pro 
fessions,  or  more  often  earning  by  the  toil  of  their 
hands  their  daily  bread,  —  for  such  unsheltered 
women  to  desire  and  demand,  along  with  man's 
responsibilities,  a  man's  full,  legal  status.  But 
there  !"  she  broke  off  suddenly.  "I've  left  my  stump 
at  a  bound!  This  is  too  precious  an  occasion  to 
waste  on  theories !  I  have  a  thousand  things  to 
ask  you,  and  about  as  many  to  impart." 

She  leaned  back  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  to  indi 
cate  that  she  had  banished  serious  discussion,  and 
smiled  at  her  companion  reassuringly.  To  herself 
she  was  saying  that  perhaps  already  she  had  let  her 
enthusiasm  carry  her  too  far.  Jim  was  looking  a 
little  afraid  of  her.  Besides,  it  was  inconceivable 
that  a  man  living  the  life  he  did,  and  tucked  away  in 
the  cotton-wool  of  a  country  suburb,  should  have 
evolved  a  vital  interest  in  up-to-date  polemics.  All 
of  his  instincts,  inherited  and  acquired,  would  be 
against  the  claims  of  the  New  Woman.  Until  she 
had  had  time  to  gauge  more  accurately  the  present 
poise  of  her  old  friend's  thought,  the  only  topics  safe 
would  be  those  conserving  personalities.  Seizing 
the  first  of  these  that  came,  she  asked,  "And  Ciceley ! 
Dear  little  Sis.  How  are  things  going  with  her?" 

A  light  flashed  into  Jim's  face,  only  to  die  down 
instantly  to  gloom.  He  shook  his  head.  "Not 
very  well.  I  want  to  talk  about  her  —  later.  First 
I  want  to  know  — "  the  effort  he  made  to  deflect  his 
mind  from  Ciceley's  affairs  was  obvious  —  "a  lot 
more  about  yourself." 

"Oh,  there  isn't  much  to  tell,"  she  answered  lightly. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  127 

"Over  there,  on  the  other  side,  I  naturally  learned  a 
few  things.  Can  you  believe  that  I've  become  really 
a  good  business  woman?"  i 

But  Jim,  no  less  than  she,  felt  evidently  that  the 
strictly  personal  was  to  be  preferred. 

"I  didn't  mean  that  sort  of  thing  so  much,"  he 
answered.  "It's  about  yourself  —  your  looks. 
What  you  did  to  turn  yourself  into  a  beauty." 

"Oh,  Jim,"  she  deprecated,  with  a  happy  blush, 
"you  know  I'm  not  a  beauty.  I  never  was  and 
never  can  be !  If  I  seem  to  have  improved,  it's  only 
because  I've  found  out  ways  of  making  the  most  of 
what  I  possess.  Few  people  do  make  the  most  of 
themselves,  you  know!" 

He  grimaced  at  the  look  of  meaning  turned  upon 
his  bulging  waistcoat,  and  parried  her  thrust  by  the 
challenge,  "You  told  me  in  your  letter  that  your  hair 
had  turned  gray!" 

"And  so  it  has,"  she  reiterated  calmly.  "Only, 
by  a  lucky  chance,  it  has  come  in  evenly  instead  of  in 
streaks.  It  never  had  any  definite  color,  you  know. 
This  gives  it  a  sort  of  sheen." 

"It  surely  does,"  he  said  admiringly,  his  eyes  upon 
the  exquisite  coiffure.  "It's  like  the  pond  at  Stag 
Harbor  when  the  moon  is  full,  and  a  whole  lot  of 
little  ripples  across  the  top." 

Julia  sat  upright  in  her  astonishment.  "Why, 
Jim  !  What  a  lovely  speech  !" 

"Wasn't  so  bad,  was  it?"  murmured  Jim,  in  a  huge 
pleased  bashfulness.  "Just  wait  till  you  see  the 
pond  now,  and  the  new  pagoda  on  that  little  island 
in  the  middle,  and  all  my  orange  trees!  You're 


128  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

going  to  find  a  lot  of  changes,  Jule.  I  wonder — " 
he  mused,  falling  back  into  a  note  of  despondency, 
"what  you're  going  to  think  of  everything,  anyway?" 

"What  is  there  for  me  to  think?"  she  mocked  him 
brightly,  "except  that  I  am  glad  —  glad  —  glad  to 
be  back  with  'you-all'  again!"  Her  smile  was  one 
that  could  not  go  unheeded.  "You're  all  right, 
Jule,"  he  told  her  earnestly.  Then  suddenly,  re 
membering  something  overlooked,  he  glanced  about 
the  room,  demanding,  "Where  is  that  boy  of  yours?" 

"Oh,  I  sent  him  off  to  a  Cinema,  —  a  'Movie', 
as  you  call  them  over  here,  —  before  you  came.  I 
wanted  you  entirely  to  myself  for  this  first  hour." 

"That  was  awfully  good  of  you,"  he  approved,  but 
despite  the  emphasis,  his  voice  lacked  in  conviction. 
The  troubled,  pent-up  thoughts  struggled  in  a  new 
demand  for  utterance. 

Julia,  watching  him  intently  without  seeming  in 
the  least  to  do  so,  felt  in  her  soul  what  was  to  come. 
By  sheer  will-power,  she  kept  the  smile  upon  her 
lips. 

"I  was  thinking,"  began  Jim  stumblingly,  "that  if 
the  boy  is  to  get  back  soon,  maybe  I'd  better  — 
He  broke  off  with  a  look  that  pleaded  for  her  further 
ance. 

"You  mean  that  you  think  it  better  for  us  to  talk 
about  Ciceley  before  there  is  any  chance  of  interrup 
tion?" 

"Yes,"  he  responded  gratefully.  "That's  just  it! 
You  always  did  understand  things,  Jule!" 

To  this,  his  companion  attempted  no  rejoinder. 
She  was  consciously  gathering  her  forces  against  the 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  129 

disclosure  to  come.  Upon  it,  or,  rather,  upon  his 
way  of  stating  it,  depended,  for  her,  more  that  the 
man  who  spoke  could  ever  dream. 

"You  said,"  her  low  and  perfectly  controlled 
voice  led  on,  "that  poor  little  Sis  was  in  trouble." 

"She  is,"  groaned  Jim.  "The  worst  sort  of 
trouble.  That  kind  which  seems  as  if  nobody  on 
earth  could  help  you.  It's  those  two  ungrateful 
girls  of  hers!"  he  flung  out  suddenly,  warned  by  the 
surprise  on  his  listener's  face  into  a  more  concrete 
form  of  expression. 

"Her  girls!"  echoed  Julia.  "That  does  astonish 
me.  I  have  understood,  all  along,  that  they  were 
both  growing  up  into  perfect  beauties." 

"Pretty  is  as  pretty  does,"  quoted  Jim  senten- 
tiously.  "I  wasn't  thinkin'  about  their  looks.  It's 
the  way  they  act,  —  the  way  they  treat  that  poor 
little  mother!" 

A  tiny  gleam,  as  of  steel,  flashed  for  an  instant 
into  Julia's  eyes.  "But  surely — "  she  exclaimed, 
then,  with  an  effort,  held  back  the  half  formed  words. 

By  this  the  floodgates  of  Jim's  wrath  were  opened. 
In  a  torrent  of  words,  choking  at  times  into  incoher 
ence,  he  retailed  to  the  tense  and  silent  woman  before 
him  the  scene  in  which,  so  recently,  he  had  borne  a 
part.  Toward  the  last,  the  surge  of  his  anger  con 
centrated  upon  the  remembered  image  of  Lucille. 
"If  you  could  have  seen  her,  Jule!"  he  cried,  with  a 
shudder.  "That  white  face  of  hers  might  have  been 
chipped  from  a  solid  block  of  ice.  And  the  way  she 
looked  at  Ciceley!  God!"  he  broke  out,  and  all 
at  once  let  his  shaggy  head  fall  to  his  hands,  "I'd 


130  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

rather  have  two  lead  bullets  go  through  me,  than 
meet  that  look  in  the  eyes  of  a  child  of  mine  !" 

Julia  had  remained  utterly  without  speech.  Al 
most,  he  would  have  said  she  did  not  breathe.  Surely, 
not  by  an  inch  had  the  gray  figure  moved !  It  was, 
therefore,  with  a  sensation  of  incredulity  that  Jim, 
finally  lifting  his  face,  saw  that  she  had  risen  and 
stood  with  a  hand  outstretched. 

"Don't  say  any  more  just  now,"  she  commanded, 
rather  than  entreated.  "You  must  remember  that 
all  of  it  is  very  new  to  me.  I  must  have  time  to 
think." 

She  moved  away,  with  this,  and  passing  over  to  a 
window,  stood  just  within  the  white  draperies,  ap 
parently  gazing  down  into  the  lighted  street. 

"It  doesn't  seem  right  fair  to  you,"  murmured  the 
man  remorsefully,  "and  on  your  very  first  evening, 
too."  He  turned  beseeching  eyes,  but  Julia  did  not 
see  them. 

"If  there  was  anybody  else  on  earth — "  he 
stumbled  on.  "But  you  see  for  yourself  that  it  is 
a  big  trouble ;  and  the  minute  I  got  your  letter,  — 
even  this  morning,  before  I  knew  how  bad  things 
really  were  with  Sis,  —  Again  he  broke  off  un 
certainly. 

"Yes?"  encouraged  a  clear  voice  from  the  window. 

"  Ciceley  herself  has  been  wishing  you'd  come  home 
—  and  when  I  heard  that  you  were  really  coming,  — 
why,  Jule, "  here  he  essayed  a  tone  of  natural  hearti 
ness,  "  I  said  to  myself  right  off, '  Well !  If  this  arrival 
of  dear  old  Jule,  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  isn't  a  regular 
godsend!" 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  131 

"For  Ciceley,  of  course." 

"Why  —  ye-es.  For  poor  little  Sis.  I  know  how 
fond  you've  always  been  of  her.  You  are  yet,  ain't 
you  ?  "  he  queried  ungrammatically,  but  with  pleading. 

"Oh,  of  course." 

Frowning  a  little,  the  man  turned  in  his  chair 
that  he  might  view  more  squarely  so  perplexing  a 
companion.  Her  profile  was  still  all  of  her  face  that 
he  could  see,  but  in  the  poise  of  her  upright  figure 
was  a  sort  of  high  courage,  at  which  Jim  again  took 
heart.  She  was  altogether  a  most  pleasant  vision 
for  man's  eyes  to  rest  upon.  Her  gown  of  soft,  mist- 
colored  crepe  clung  in  such  lovely  and  such  quiet 
folds  that  it  seemed  to  be  a  sentient  part  of  her.  The 
Oriental  moonstones  at  her  girdle  and  around  the 
long,  white  throat  gleamed  as  if  with  her  own  luminous 
thoughts.  Yes,  here  was  the  one  to  help  him.  Com 
fort  grew  warm.  Again  he  assured  himself,  in  con 
scious  phrasing,  that  what  Ciceley  needed  most  of  all 
was  the  counsel  and  loving  aid  of  such  a  woman. 

In  the  completion  of  this  cheering  thought,  Julia's 
gray  draperies,  as  if  stirred  by  her  breathing,  began 
to  sway  lightly.  She  turned,  and  moved  toward  him 
with  swift  decision. 

Instinctively  he  would  have  risen,  but  she  waved 
him  back,  and  at  a  short  distance  stood  looking  deeply 
down  into  his  eyes.  He  gazed  back,  wondering  a 
little.  On  her  lips  there  grew  the  shadow  of  a  smile, 
a  smile  such  as  he  had  never  seen  before.  In  some 
vague  way  it  thrilled  him,  but  back  of  the  thrill 
there  was  a  fine,  keen  edge  that  drew  along  the  very 
nerves  of  his  spine.  He  blinked  unconsciously; 


i32  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

then  looking  up  again,  saw  only  the  face  of  his  old 
friend  Jule,  the  woman  whom  he  was  asking  to  be 
his  helper,  his  close  confederate  in  the  redemption  of 
another  woman,  and  this  the  one  whom  all  his  life 
he  had  loved  and  striven  to  win. 


CHAPTER  TEN 
THE  ROSE  OF  DAWN 

AVOIDING  the  small  rocker  in  which  she  had  been 
sitting,  Julia  drew  a  stiff  upright  chair  so  near  the 
center  table  that  she  could  rest  an  elbow  on  its 
polished  surface.  With  a  gesture  of  clearing  the 
decks  for  action,  she  pushed  to  one  side  the  obstruct 
ing,  if  lovely,  large  vase  of  roses.  This  left,  between 
herself  and  Jim,  only  a  space  of  pink-tinged  air.  i 

Her  opening  remark  was  at  once  so  practical,  yet 
seemingly  so  irrelevant,  that  Jim  felt  the  impact  like 
a  small  explosion. 

"You  had  better  light  another  pipe.  You'll  need 
it!" 

The  suggestion  was  accepted,  but  not  without  a 
certain  guarded  thoughtfulness.  In  Jim's  experi 
ence,  women  did  not  usually  approach  a  subject ;  they 
merely  shut  their  eyes  tight,  and  jumped. 

She  attempted  to  appear  unconscious  of  his  vague 
perturbation,  and  fingered  delicately  a  bracelet  on 
her  left  arm.  When  smoke  from  the  small  altar  of 
peace  across  from  her  began  rhythmically  to  ascend, 
Julia,  with  a  smile  and  a  brisk  assumption  of  con- 

133 


i34  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

fidence,  began,  "First  of  all,  Jim.  If  we  are  to  help 
Sis,  we've  got  to  understand  each  other." 

"But  we  do,  already.  Don't  we?"  parried  Jim. 
"Well,"  she  hesitated.  "I  am  not  altogether  sure 
of  that  'we.'  Your  position  is  unmistakable,  of 
course.  The  fact  is,  -  '  here  she  let  her  eyes  rest 
upon  him  with  a  ruminative,  and  again  disturbing 
serenity,  —  "I  am  afraid  that  I  take  an  entirely 
different  view.  It  is  my  own  summary  of  the  situa 
tion  that  I  want  to  make  clear." 

"Oh,"  said  Jim,  moving  uneasily.  "Well,  fire 
ahead." 

"There  is  no  doubt  at  all  that  things  are  in  a  bad 
way  between  Ciceley  and  her  daughters?" 

"In  a  bad  way!"  echoed  Jim.  "That's  too  mild 
a  statement.  They  are  ungrateful  young  wretches, 
those  two  girls.  I  never — " 

"And,  of  course,  every  one  considers  Ciceley  en 
tirely  blameless,"  Julia  pursued  evenly,  cutting  the 
threatened  diatribe  off  cleanly  at  its  very  source. 

Jim  sat  more  upright,  his  blue  eyes  growing  a  little 
hard.  "Look  here,  Jule,"  he  began,  threateningly. 

"You  must  have  patience,  Jim,"  she  interpolated. 
"It  is  all  to  help  Sis.  I  think  I  can  do  it,  but  it's 
got  to  be  in  my  own  way." 

"That's  all  right  too,"  answered  Jim,  only  partially 
placated.  "But  when  you  hint  that  poor  little  Sis  is 
at  fault  —  "  he  broke  off,  mumbling. 

Julia  considered  him  for  a  long  moment.  A  shade 
of  doubt  grew  in  her  face.  Jim,  after  a  few  indignant 
puffs  upon  his  pipe,  brought  his  eyes  back  to  hers. 

"I'm  listening,"  he  encouraged,  when  she  remained 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  135 

silent,  "I'll  try  not  to  flare  up.  Only—  Again 
he  broke  off,  his  tone  betraying  impatience. 

"I  am  as  sorry  for  poor  little  Sis  as  you  are,"  Julia 
said,  speaking  at  last,  and  choosing  her  words  care 
fully.  "I  think  I  am  a  good  deal  sorrier,  for  I  can 
see  things  that  you,  and  probably  most  of  the  Hill 
people  with  you,  do  not  see.  At  first  I  was  sure  that 
I  could  help,  but  now  - 

''You  don't  mean  that  you  are  going  to  give  it  up 
before  you've  really  begun!"  protested  Jim.  "Why, 
Jule,  that  isn't  a  bit  like  you." 

She  smiled  at  him  a  little  wistfully.  "You  don't 
realize,  I  suppose,  that  I  had  begun." 

Jim's  head  hung  down  like  a  punished  schoolboy's. 
"I  see.  I  deserved  it.  Please  don't  give  up.  I 
won't  break  out  again." 

Her  expression  of  doubt  did  not  fade. 

"I  mean  it,  honest,  Jule,"  the  man  pleaded.  "It's 
only  this  confounded  temper  of  mine.  But  I  can 
hold  it  in.  I  can  do  anything  that  will  help  Sis." 

Julia  leaned  back  suddenly,  and  put  one  hand  be 
fore  her  eyes.  When  her  face  showed  again,  it  was 
clear,  self-controlled,  and  a  little  judicial.  She  bent 
toward  him.  "I  warn  you,  then,  the  next  time  you 
'break  out',  I  shall  throw  the  whole  thing  over." 

"I  understand.  You  can  count  on  me,"  he  pledged 
himself. 

"Just  keep  in  your  mind  that  it  is  entirely  for  Sis," 
she  said,  with  the  ghost  of  a  quiver  on  her  lips. 

"That's  just  what  I'm  doing." 

"Then,  for  another  start.  When  a  snarl  is  to  be 
untied,  the  best  way  is  to  begin  at  the  tightest  knot." 


136  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"It  is,"  said  Jim  submissively. 

"And,  obviously,  you'll  never  untie  it  as  long  as  you 
pretend  it  isn't  there." 

Jim  nodded.     She  was  getting  rather  deep. 

"Yet  that  is  exactly  what  you  and  Ciceley's  other 
friends  have  been  doing.  You  pull  and  tug  at  the 
loose  ends  of  the  problem,  the  behavior  of  the  girls, 
and  you  refuse  to  see  that  the  hard  knot,  the  core 
and  center  of  all  the  trouble,  is  Ciceley  herself." 

She  paused,  and  her  keen  look  gave  out  a  gleam  of 
challenge. 

"  Go  on,"  muttered  Jim,  swallowing  hard. 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  the  entire  Hill  regards 
Ciceley  as  a  martyr.  She  is  held  up  as  an  example 
of  devoted  widowhood,  giving  her  whole  life  up  to 
her  dead  husband's  memory  and  his  children." 

"I  don't  see  how  even  you,  Jule,  can  help  seeing 
the  truth  of  that,"  ventured  Jim. 

"  Truth ! "  flared  the  other.  "  There  has  never  been 
one  molecule  of  truth  in  the  whole  affair !  Ciceley 
has  been  kept  from  reality  as  if  it  were  the  smallpox. 
Why,  probably  to  this  day  she  has  never  been  told 
the  facts  of  her  husband's  death.  Has  she?"  was 
the  sudden  demand. 

"N-o-o,  I  don't  think  she  has,"  said  Jim,  looking 
from  side  to  side  as  if  he  longed,  now  that  the  torrent 
was  upon  him,  to  escape. 

But  Julia  was  relentless.  "If  ever  there  was  a 
ne'er-do-well,  a  scapegrace  on  this  earth,  it  was  that 
same  Henry  Bering,"  she  hurtled  on.  "When  he 
died,  it  was  a  good  riddance  to  all  concerned.  You 
knew  it  then,  and  you  know  it  now.  You  shielded 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  137 

Ciceley  from  that  first  moment.  You  have  literally 
supported  her  and  Henry's  children.  Oh,"  she  cried, 
"you  needn't  try  to  stop  me.  I  have  had  means  of 
finding  out.  Of  course  this  has  been  kept  back  from 
Ciceley.  You  have  treated  her  soul,  her  mentality, 
in  just  the  way  it  would  be  if  you  took  a  normal  child, 
and  encased  its  two  legs  in  steel  braces.  Whose  fault 
is  it  if  the  child  learns  to  depend  upon  the  braces,  and 
ceases  to  use  the  power  it  was  born  with!  Truth! 
Ciceley  doesn't  know  its  meaning !  " 

Jim  kept  his  tongue,  but  his  eyes  blinked  rapidly. 

"I  started  out,"  said  Julia,  with  a  softening  little 
break  at  the  beginning  of  her  words,  "to  say  that 
Ciceley  was  the  one  at  fault.  I  take  that  back.  It 
isn't  Ciceley  only.  It  is  her  friends,  and  most  of 
aU—  " 

"Don't  say  it,  Jule,"  the  man  interrupted  harshly, 
"I'm  beginning  to  see  too  well.  We  all  meant  it 
for  the  best.  She  seemed  the  sort  of  person  that  had 
to  be  shielded  and  protected." 

"The  sort  of  person,  you  mean,  who  liked  to  be 
lied  to!"  Julia  corrected.  "Poor  little  Sis,  swaddled 
in  sentimentality,  fed  up  with  outworn  traditions, 
pitied,  and  loved,  and  encouraged  in  her  self-destroy 
ing  weaknesses  by  the  very  ones  who  should  have  tried 
to  strengthen  her.  Is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  when 
a  new,  alert,  and  vital  intelligence  such  as  Lucille 
begins  to  match  her  growing  powers  against  an  in 
effectual  opponent,  she  should  learn  to  despise  it?" 

"That's  an  awful  word  to  use  between  a  mother 
and  her  child,"  reproved  Jim  solemnly. 

"Words!    Words!    Words!"   was   the   impatient 


i38  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

retort.  "In  a  small,  shut-in  community  like  Rich 
mond  Hill,  you  people  use  words  and  hang  your 
moth-eaten  ideas  on  them,  just  as  you  hang  your 
clothes  on  rusty  nails.  If  the  fact  is  there,  why 
blench  and  turn  pale  at  the  word?  We  are  after 
the  truth  of  things,  and  the  unhappy  truth  that  faces 
us  right  now  is  that  Ciceley  has  failed,  or  rather," 
she  corrected  herself,  "  is  failing,  in  the  biggest  enter 
prise  ever  entrusted  to  a  woman's  hands,  —  that  of 
intelligent  motherhood." 

Jim  could  not  answer.  The  old  pipe  had  gone  out, 
and  mechanically  he  had  thrust  it  back  into  a  sagging 
coat  pocket.  He  was  huddled  down  in  the  pink 
brocaded  chair,  an  almost  ludicrous  image  of  flaccid 
despondency. 

The  woman  watching  him  felt  all  at  once  a 
curious  reversal  of  time.  Again  she  faced  the  big, 
despairing  boy  who  was  just  telling  her  of  Ciceley's 
refusal.  "I'm  a  one-woman  man,  Jule,"  the  dumb 
lips  were  saying.  Again  it  was  her  part  to  comfort 
him.  A  smile  of  maternal  tenderness  irradiated  her 
face. 

"Don't  look  so  wretched,  dear  old  Jim,"  she  begged. 
"Remember  I  do  not  think  the  situation  hopeless. 
Ciceley  has  a  lot  of  sense  in  her  quiet  way.  That 
clash  with  Lucille  has  probably  done  much  to  wake 
her  up.  It  is  our  part  to  see  that  she  doesn't  fall 
back  into  stupor." 

Jim's  fixed  and  gloomy  stare  refused  to  change. 

"Now  listen!"  she  cried,  in  a  tone  of  bright  com 
mand.  "Just  to  show  you  that  I  know  a  little  some 
thing  about  Ciceley's  problem,  I  am  going  to  inflict 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  139 

you  with  my  own  experience.  Shall  you  care  to 
hear?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  murmured  the  other,  trying 
with  only  partial  success  to  appear  polite.  "Any 
thing  about  you,  Jule.  You  know  - 

She  had  to  bite  her  lips  to  keep  from  laughing. 

"Well,  to  begin,  we  shall  have  to  go  back  a  good, 
long  time,  to  the  very  day,  in  fact,  that  you  put  Wick 
and  me  on  the  train,  and  started  us  off  for  England. 
Heavens!"  she  flung  in,  "And  what  a  woebegone, 
crepe-hung  effigy  of  widowhood  I  was !  Old  Mrs. 
Rogers  had  helped  me  in  selecting  my  'weeds.'  My 
handkerchief  —  I  can  see  it  yet  —  was  a  two-inch 
square  of  white,  let  into  a  four-inch  black  border. 
There  was  not  a  mortuary  detail  overlooked.  I  am 
sure  I  had  black  ribbons  in  my  underwear !  But  the 
blackest  fibers  of  them  all  were  those  connected  with 
my  mental  outlook." 

Jim  was  beginning  to  show  a  faint  interest.  She 
talked  on  vivaciously. 

"At  that  time  I  was  obsessed  with  the  idea  — 
Ciceley's  idea  —  that  the  remainder  of  my  existence 
was  to  be  dedicated  to  just  one  thing,  —  the  welfare 
of  my  child." 

Jim's  honest  eyes  here  expressed  a  sort  of  hurt  as 
tonishment  that  so  obvious  and  altogether  commenda 
ble  a  thought  should  have  been  subject  to  revision. 

"Like  Ciceley,  I  took  devotion,  maternal  dedica 
tion,  to  imply  unceasing  sacrifice,  the  abrogation  of 
all  personal  desires,  and  consequently  personal  devel 
opment." 

"Well?"  queried  Jim.     "And  doesn't  it?" 


140  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Oh,  you  blind  bachelor-man!"  she  chaffed  him 
merrily.  "Suppose  you  had  a  spirited  horse  to  tame, 
would  you  begin  by  cutting  your  arm-muscles?" 

Giving  this  homely  simile  a  moment  to  sink  in, 
she  pursued. 

"The  training  of  a  child  is,  in  more  ways  than  one, 
like  the  training  of  a  colt.  The  higher  the  breeding 
of  the  colt,  the  more  intelligence  and  muscle  the 
trainer  needs.  With  a  child  you  have,  in  addition 
to  physical  guidance,  a  thousand  complexes  of  mind 
and  soul  and  inherited  tendencies.  The  ideal,  per 
fect,  modern  mother,"  she  declared  with  vehemence, 
"should  be,  first,  a  biologist,  secondly  a  business 
woman,  third,  a  physician,  and,  most  important  of 
all,  a  technical  psychologist.  No  wonder  you  look 
amazed!"  Here  a  gay  laugh  rang  out.  "Don't 
fear.  I  am  only  the  mere  superficial  skimming  of 
these  social  sciences.  I  have  read  a  good  deal,  it  is 
true,  but  all  that  I  learn  merely  has  the  effect  of 
making  me  realize  how  little  it  is.  One  never  knows 
enough  to  be  a  wise  mother !" 

She  leaned  back  now,  deliberately  controlling  the 
excitement  that  her  own  words  had  aroused. 

"The  real  secret,  Jim,"  she  said  a  little  later, 
speaking  with  more  restraint,  "the  fundamental 
necessity  in  attempting  to  influence  a  growing  mind 
is  to  keep  yours  as  young  in  spirit,  and  ages  older  in 
knowledge." 

"Poor  little  Sis,"  murmured  Jim,  apparently  ir 
relevant.  Julia  understood. 

"But  I  am  miles  away  from  where  I  started!" 
she  cried  out.  "This  isn't  to  be  a  theory,  but  a 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  141 

quite  definite  demonstration.  Well,  we  got  over  to 
England  somehow.  I  took  Wick  to  his  preliminary 
school  and  left  him  there.  For  business  reasons,  in 
order  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  firm  of  solicitors  who 
were  managing  my  husband's  English  investments,  I 
went  to  live  in  London,  taking  a  suite  at  one  of  the 
less  expensive  hotels.  I  knew  a  little  about  business, 
even  then.  Judge  Preston  had  fallen  into  the  way 
of  consulting  me;  but  somehow,  in  this  crisis,  it 
never  occurred  to  me  as  a  possible  and  vital  interest. 
I  was  a  heartbroken  widow,  consecrating  my  crepe- 
hung  life  to  my  boy.  Therefore  it  seemed  the  proper 
thing  to  remain  in  darkened  chambers,  brooding 
over  the  past  and  shrinking  at  thought  of  the  future. 
A  cheerful  and  vitalizing  atmosphere  for  a  boy 
to  come  back  to  at  the  end  of  a  normal,  out-of-door 
week  with  other  boys !  "  she  denounced,  with  a  note 
of  scorn. 

"Then  you  had  the  boy  with  you  part  of  the  time," 
remarked  Jim  sympathetically. 

"Yes,  from  each  Saturday  noon  till  early  the  fol 
lowing  Monday,  —  poor  lad." 

Jim  frowned,  but  without  waiting  for  comment 
she  hurried  on. 

"Just  at  the  first  I  used  to  go  up  to  his  school  by 
an  early  train  on  Saturdays,  just  for  the  bliss  of  having 
him  a  little  longer.  I  met  a  few  of  his  friends.  They 
seemed  to  avoid  me,  and  Wick,  while  they  were 
around,  was  so  utterly  unlike  his  affectionate  self 
that  I  was  annoyed  and  troubled.  At  last  he  found 
courage  to  tell  me  that  the  'other  fellows'  laughed, 
because  they  said  I  came  after  him,  as  if  I  didn't 


142  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

trust  him  to  ride  on  the  train  alone.  I  was  deeply 
hurt,  but  I  stayed  away." 

"The  young  cub!"  growled  Jim. 

"Not  at  all.  I  was  the  one  to  blame.  After  I 
stopped  going  to  his  school,  I  literally  existed  only 
in  the  thoughts  of  his  visit.  All  of  my  meals  were 
served  in  a  private  dining  room.  I  considered  it 
more  'delicate'  to  avoid  publicity.  Wick  and  I 
ate  in  solemn  state,  with  two  butlers  to  serve  us. 
Oh,  what  a  fool  I  was!" 

"I  can't  see  that,  Jule." 

"No,  but  you  will." 

"One  Saturday,  a  day,  I  remember,  that  was 
all  blue  and  gold  outside,  with  a  heavenly,  soft  little 
wind  blowing  in  from  the  Thames,  the  boy  was  late. 
I  stood,  glued  to  the  window,  watching  this  way  and 
that,  a  hundred  different  scenes  of  horror  painted  on 
my  self-tormenting  mind.  Finally  he  came,  and  I 
said  to  myself  that  the  mother-anxiety  instinct  was 
sacredly  true.  He  had  been  injured.  His  head  was 
bandaged  in  white,  and  one  arm  was  in  a  sling.  I 
flew  down  to  the  hotel  door,  dragging  him  through 
it  bodily,  hurling  my  terrified  questions,  while  the 
servants  and  the  other  guests  stood  grinning.  I 
never  saw  them,  but  Wick  did.  He  wrenched  him 
self  away,  beseeching  me  to  wait  until  we  got  to  our 
room.  This  did  not  stop  me.  Finally,  Wick  could 
shut  the  door  on  the  world  that  had  grinned  at  him, 
and  to  my  horror  I  saw  that  he  faced  me  with  some 
thing  like  anger  in  his  eyes.  I  had  never  before  seen 
that  look  !  Stricken  by  it,  but  still  unwarned,  I  con 
tinued  my  demands  for  an  explanation.  He  was  surly. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  143 

I  nagged  and  tormented  him."  A  sob  caught  in  her 
throat  and  for  an  instant  she  held  a  tight  hand 
against  it. 

"I  want  you  to  bear  well  in  mind,"  she  resumed  in 
a  more  ordinary  voice,  "that  during  all  this  —  four 
months,  I  think  it  was  —  I  had  gone  nowhere,  and 
made  no  friends.  Sometimes,  at  twilight,  I  would 
creep  about  the  Park  or  along  the  Thames  in  my  black 
veil.  When  Wick  was  with  me,  I  did  not  wish  even 
this.  I  kept  him  there,  a  prisoner  to  my  own  morbid 
ness.  I  often  wonder  how  the  poor  lamb  stood  me  as 
long  as  he  did." 

She  smiled  a  reminiscent  smile,  touched  with  a 
sad  self-scorning. 

"But  the  fight,"  reminded  Jim.  "Of  course  he'd 
been  fighting." 

"Yes,  he  admitted  that,  but  when  I  insisted  upon 
knowing  the  cause,  he  was  silent.  Like  the  idiot 
I  then  was,  I  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was 
something  he  was  ashamed  of,  something  he  dared 
not  tell.  At  this,  I  started  in  quoting  scripture.  I 
censured  him  first  for  deceiving  and  concealing  things 
from  his  poor  mother.  Of  course  the  fifth  command 
ment  was  dragged  in.  Then  I  began  a  tirade  on  the 
wickedness  of  fighting.  Here  was  a  piece  of  con 
temptible  self-deception,  for  I  really  believed  in  a 
boy's  fighting,  when  the  provocation  is  unbearable. 
But  I  gave  neither  Wick  nor  my  morbid  self  the 
benefit  of  this  doubt.  I  was  simply  in  terror  that  he 
might  be  hurt.  I  am  sure  he  saw  through  me,  even 
at  the  moment.  Nevertheless,  I  kept  on.  I  tried 
to  make  him  promise  never  to  fight  again,  and  was 


144  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

fool  enough  to  point  out  how  pained  and  shocked  his 
father  would  have  been.  At  this  the  poor  child, 
goaded  and  lashed  beyond  control,  told  me  the 
cause  for  his  fighting." 

Jim's  eyes,  by  this,  were  eager.  "Yes,"  he  en 
couraged.  Again  it  was  the  boy  Jim,  who  sat  be 
fore  her. 

"It  seems,"  continued  the  narrator  more  deliber 
ately,  "that  all  along,  from  the  time  of  my  first 
lugubrious  appearance  at  the  school,  the  boys  had 
been  ragging  him.  They  referred  to  me  as  his  nurse, 
his  keeper.  Boys  at  their  age  are  not  very  con 
siderate.  They  had  invented  nicknames  for  me,  the 
'raven',  the  'inky  fountain',  and  a  lot  of  others  I 
have  forgotten.  But  the  final  sneer,  the  one  that 
sent  Wick  in  a  red  fury  against  the  speaker,  was 
when  one  of  the  big  boys  called  me  the  '  Great  Ameri 
can  Hearse.'  Rather  clever,  now,  wasn't  it?" 

Jim,  after  a  gleam  of  appreciation,  instantly  sub 
dued,  protested  hotly.  "No,  it  was  brutal!  The 
scallawag!  I  hope  Wick  pounded  him  to  a  jelly!" 

Julia  shook  her  head.  "He  was  twice  Wick's 
size.  He  might  have  done  a  lot  more  harm  —  physi 
cal  harm,  I  mean  —  than  actually  he  did.  All 
English  boys  like  pluck.  And  as  for  his  part  as 
inciter,  —  I  shall  love  that  boy  until  his  life's  end." 

"Love  him!"  echoed  the  astonished  man.  "Well, 
I'll  be  tee- totally— " 

"You  needn't  be,"  she  suggested  calmly.  "I 
repeat,  that  English  boy  was  the  direct  means  to 
my  salvation.  Afterward  he  became  one  of  our  most 
frequent  guests.  You  see,  I  thanked  him." 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  145 

Her  eyes,  bright  and  a  little  quizzical,  set  them 
selves  on  his. 

"I  reckon  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about," 
smiled  Jim,  using  that  tone  of  kindly  patience  which 
so  flatly  contradicts  the  surmise. 

"I  know,"  she  nodded,  "and  so  will  you  in  a 
minute,  for  this  is  what  it  did.  After  the  first  shock, 
in  which  I  seemed  to  be  caught  up  in  a  cyclone, 
whirled  in  ten  directions,  and  set  down  in  the  same 
spot,  I  seemed  to  feel,  all  at  once,  the  volt  of  a  new 
electricity  in  my  atrophying  brain.  Everything 
cleared !  I  was,  as  by  a  miracle,  delivered  from  my 
self.  It  took  just  that  one  volt  to  change  my  whole 
conception  of  what  motherhood  really  means.  I  had 
been  thinking  of  myself,  my  own  sorrow,  loneliness, 
homesickness,  and  various  other  mental  maladies, 
and  really  not  of  Wick  at  all.  He  was  being  used  as 
a  sort  of  clothes  rack,  on  which  I  aired  my  crepe, 
or  hung  my  tear-soaked  handkerchiefs  out  to  dry. 
Those  week-end  visits,  made  so  faithfully,  must  have 
been  nightmares  to  a  healthy  boy. 

"While  I  stood  there  thinking  —  planning  —  de 
ciding  —  with  a  swiftness  and  surety  my  mind  had 
never  known  before,  Wick  lay  on  the  bed,  his  face 
averted,  sobbing  his  little  heart  away.  I  drew  my 
self  up ;  and,  marching  as  much  like  a  soldier  on 
parade  as  I  knew  how,  strode  past  him  to  an  old- 
fashioned  wardrobe,  banged  the  doors  wide,  and 
jerked  from  its  hook  my  widow's  bonnet  and  its 
long,  baneful  draperies. 

"By  this  time  Wick  had  begun  to  watch  me  from 
the  corner  of  one  swollen  eye.  I  punched  that  hat 


146  THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 

and  veil  into  a  wad  the  size  of  a  football,  and,  almost 
running  to  the  fire,  thrust  it  into  the  coals,  and  held 
it  rigidly  with  a  poker,  till  the  last  writhing  crisp 
had  fallen  to  white  ash.  Wick  was  now  sitting 
upright  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  I  heard  him 
give  a  gasp.  Then  I  sprang  from  my  knees  and, 
crossing  to  him,  'Wick,'  I  said,  and  somehow  I 
managed  a  smile,  'Wick,  dear  boy,  there  went  the 
last  of  the  Great  American  Hearse.  I  think  we'll 
have  dinner  down-stairs  in  the  main  dining  room 
to-night.  And  what  do  you  say  to  a  musical  comedy 
afterward  ? ' 

"There  isn't  much  more  more  to  tell,"  she  said, 
after  a  pause  in  which  apparently  she  had  relived, 
with  a  new  perspective  of  satisfaction,  the  described 
scene.  "During  that  very  week  I  moved  out  of  my 
gloomy,  ultra-respectable  hotel,  and  took  a  cheerful 
little  apartment  in  Knightsbridge,  overlooking  Hyde 
Park.  There  was  an  extra  bedchamber  for  Wick's 
school  friends.  He  seldom,  after  that,  came  down 
alone.  I  tried  to  make  them  all  like  me,  and  I 
believe  that  I  succeeded.  Since  then  I  have  never 
worn  crepe,  or  solid  black.  I  took  up  the  study  of 
stocks  and  bonds  as  if  it  were  a  game.  All  of  Wick's 
scientific  work  was  new  to  me.  I  began  to  study  it, 
and  to  go  further.  There  are  no  such  libraries  as 
those  in  London.  Also  I  made  good  friends,  both 
men  and  women.  The  boy  and  I  had  more  invita 
tions  than  we  could  meet.  He  accepted  my  popular 
ity  with  'grown  folks'  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  his 
pride  in  the  boys'  admiration  and  liking  was  touching. 
We  became  not  so  much  mother  and  son,  as  comrades, 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  147 

chums,  fellow-students,  and  playmates.  His  favorite 
name  for  me  yet  is  'chum.'" 

Again  she  would  have  fallen  into  happy  reverie, 
but  a  certain  restless  movement  from  the  chair 
before  her  brought  recollection  of  the  real  issue 
involved. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  a  little  hastily,  "I  cannot 
pretend  that  my  particular  problem  bears  a  very 
close  relation  to  Ciceley's.  It  is  possible  that  girls 
are  different. " 

"Yes,"  seconded  Jim  eagerly.  "That's  just  what 
I've  been  thinking  all  along.  If  Wick  had  been  a 
girl,  now?" 

There  was  questioning,  almost  a  challenge,  in  his 
eyes.  She  met  them  fairly.  He  could  not  fail  to 
read  in  the  bright  and  steadfast  intelligence  of  her 
returning  look  complete  self-confidence. 

"Whether  a  boy  or  girls,"  she  summarized,  "the 
one  supreme  necessity  is  in  keeping  oneself  in  touch 
with  them.  Mental  inertia,  the  lure  of  the  line  of 
least  resistance,  are  the  snares  of  middle  age.  Some 
people,  like  Ciceley,  are  born  with  a  tendency  toward 
negation.  But  negation  is  a  path  that  no  one,  least 
of  all  a  mother,  can  afford  to  tread." 

She  waited  now  for  Jim  to  speak.  As  a  preliminary 
he  drew  a  long,  discouraged  sigh.  "Hasn't  poor 
little  Sis  gone  pretty  far  along  that  road  already?" 
In  even  so  slight  a  concession,  he  felt  himself  dis 
loyal. 

"Yes,  but  not  hopelessly,"  cried  Julia.  "That's 
what  I  won't  believe.  It  will  take  time,  and  patience, 
and  more  tact  than  either  of  us  has  ever  used  before, 


148  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

but  between  us  I  feel  certain  it  can  be  done.  Lucille 
has  already  discharged  her  stick  of  dynamite,"  she 
went  on,  smiling  to  see  the  growing  animation  of  her 
listener's  face.  "I  have  a  few  sticks  of  that  excellent 
commodity  up  my  own  sleeve." 

Jim,  glancing  toward  the  diaphanous  draperies, 
grinned. 

"Then  I  descend  on  Sis  to-morrow !"  she  declaimed. 
"Now,  don't  look  terrified.  I'm  not  going  to  bite  her. 
But  in  the  morning,  early,  it  is  to  be.  I  am  specially 
anxious  to  take  her  by  surprise.  Listen!"  she  cried 
out  in  another  tone,  her  head  turned  swiftly.  "I 
hear  Wick." 

"Why,  I  don't  hear  a  thing,"  declared  Jim,  but 
even  with  the  words,  a  quick  knock  sounded. 

At  Julia's  joyous  "Come,"  a  boy  entered.  He  was 
slender,  and  not  very  tall.  Judge  Preston  had  been 
a  short,  stout  man.  The  first  impression  given  by 
Wick  was  that  of  straightforward  energy.  He  moved 
instantly  and  directly  toward  his  mother's  guest, 
who  sprang  up  to  meet  him.  On  hearing  the  Colonel's 
name,  the  boy  smiled  suddenly,  disclosing  an  array  of 
teeth  marvellously  white  and  even.  His  mouth, 
slightly  repressed  when  in  repose,  broke,  with  the  act 
of  smiling,  into  winning  curves.  An  almost  girlish 
dimple,  cordially  and  ungratefully  detested  by  its 
owner,  played  at  the  left  corner  of  his  lips. 

"Colonel  Jim  !"  he  exclaimed,  a  hand  outstretched, 
"I  should  say  I  did  remember!  My!  But  I'm 
jolly  well  pleased  to  be  at  home  once  more !" 

"God  bless  my  soul !"  rejoined  the  Colonel  in  huge 
delight,  plying  with  energy  his  numbing  grip.  "It's 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  149 

the  boy  all  right !  But  look  here,  sonny,  that  Eng 
lish  accent  of  yours  is  going  to  get  you  a  lot  of 
knocks!" 

"Oh,  I'm  well  coached,"  said  Wickford.  "My 
chum  there,"  he  turned  a  merry,  affectionate  look 
upon  his  mother,  "has  seen  to  that.  The  boys  have 
already  been  after  a  bit  of  ragging  down  in  the  hotel 
lounge." 

"  He  means  vestibule  —  corridor  —  foyer  —  what 
ever  they  call  the  place  you  sit  in,  over  here," 
explained  Julia,  laughing  from  one  face  to  the 
other. 

Standing  before  Jim,  who  was  as  big  as  a  man  ever 
gets  to  be  without  being  too  big,  the  boy  seemed  a 
mere  stripling.  Julia  unconsciously  moved  nearer, 
thrusting  an  arm  through  his.  Her  bright,  intelli 
gent  face  glowed  with  tenderness. 

To  her  suggestion  that  they  all  sit  down,  the 
Colonel  demurred  that  he  must  catch  the  car  now 
due,  as  the  night  schedule  between  "town"  and 
Richmond  Hill  was  remarkable  chiefly  for  its  wide 
spacing. 

His  hosts  went  with  him  to  the  elevator  door. 
Partly  in  the  act  of  descent  Jim  won  from  the  boy  a 
promise  to  visit  him  the  following  morning.  "We'll 
knock  around  Stag  Harbor  till  after  lunch,"  said 
Jim.  "Then  we  can  both  stroll  over  to  'Little  Sun 
shine',  and  see  for  ourselves  how  that  giddy  young 
mother  of  yours  has  been  behaving." 

When  the  last  echo  of  his  hearty  voice  was  still, 
the  mother  and  son  paced  slowly  along  the  carpeted 
corridors,  their  arms  about  each  other.  Wick  had 


150  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

begun  to  talk  already  of  his  evening's  experiences, 
the  strange  rising  to  the  surface  of  memories  he 
thought  forgotten,  the  almost  miraculous  sensations 
of  familiarity  mingled  with  unrealities. 

"I  understand  too  well,"  she  answered  him.  "It 
is  a  little  terrifying.  It  makes  one  realize  that 
nothing  ever  vanishes.  It  only  lies  in  wait." 

As  he  opened  her  drawing-room  door,  he  paused. 
"I  don't  believe  I'll  come  in,  mother.  It's  on  to 
eleven,  and  you  look  a  bit  fagged." 

"Not  for  one  cigarette?" 

"It  never  stops  at  one  when  I'm  with  you,"  he 
smiled. 

"Then  good  night,  boy." 

"Good  night,  dear  chum." 

Within  her  apartment,  the  door  securely  locked, 
she  first  snapped  off  the  lights.  Moving  softly  and 
gropingly,  she  neared  the  table,  guided  by  the  scent 
of  roses,  and,  reaching  them,  put  her  face  far  down 
among  their  petals.  Perfume  may  be  an  anaesthetic, 
or  —  a  stinging  irritant. 

After  a  single,  long,  indrawn  breath,  she  turned 
away,  and,  passing  into  her  bedchamber,  began  a 
feverish  search  for  the  electric  switchboard.  With 
all  lights  at  their  fullest,  she  went  deliberately  toward 
a  mirror,  and  stood  there,  looking,  with  hard,  ap 
praising  eyes  at  her  own  charming  semblance.  A 
smile,  —  if  anything  so  grim  and  mirthless  should 
be  called  a  smile,  —  twisted  her  well-cut  lips. 

Again  she  wheeled,  and,  moving  always  as  if  im 
pelled  by  a  strange,  underlying  excitement,  went  to 
her  trunk,  and  threw  back  the  lid.  Tray  after  tray 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  151 

was  lifted,  and  set  down  at  random.  At  last,  reach 
ing  unerringly  to  one  of  the  deepest  corners,  she  un 
covered  a  small,  tin  box.  This,  still  unopened,  she 
carried  to  the  dresser.  It  would  seem  now  as  if  she 
wished  to  avoid  the  eyes  of  that  woman  in  the  glass. 
With  face  averted,  she  put  one  hand  up  to  a  slender 
platinum  chain  quite  hidden  by  the  moonstones  at 
her  throat,  and  drew  out,  very,  very  slowly,  two 
objects  hanging  from  it.  One  was  a  tiny  key,  the 
other  a  flat  gold  locket. 

The  key  she  fitted  instantly  to  the  box,  setting  the 
top  back  with  a  single  gesture.  The  locket  presented, 
evidently,  a  graver  problem.  She  regarded  it  un 
certainly,  turning  it  over,  closing  her  hand  on  it, 
only  to  spread  it  wide  again.  Suddenly,  with  a 
tiny  shiver  of  resolution,  she  opened  it.  The  face  of 
the  boy  Jim  smiled  at  her. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  throwing  her  head  far  back. 
Her  lips  were  pressed  together  to  a  line  of  determina 
tion  that,  in  some  way,  was  infinitely  pathetic. 
Blindly  she  closed  the  locket,  shivering  again  at  the 
sharp  click  it  gave.  Then  she  lowered  it,  as  to  a 
tiny  grave,  within  the  gaping  box. 

Whatever  kindred  mementos  were  already  hidden 
there,  she  did  not  trust  herself  to  review.  There 
was  no  use,  anyway.  Each  one  was  duplicated  in 
her  heart.  Now,  last  of  all,  the  locket  must  be 
hidden. 

She  had  taken  the  key  from  its  chain.  The  box 
with  its  recent  accession,  went  back  into  the  trunk. 
Only  the  key  was  left  for  reminder.  She  gazed  at 
it  for  an  instant,  and  then  deliberately  wrenched  it 


152  THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 

apart.     On  the  palm  of  her  steady  right  hand  the 
tiny  fragments  lay. 

"There,  Julia  Wickford,"  she  said  aloud,  "there 
lies  the  last  shattered  prism  of  your  rainbow,  the 
last  torn  petal  from  your  Rose  of  Dawn." 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

CICELEY'S  GARDEN 

FORGETTING,  or  more  probably  deliberately  ig 
noring  her  mother's  stifled  request  to  close  the  door, 
Lucille,  her  chin  high  in  air,  and  a  jealous,  possessive 
arm  encircling  little  Sylvia,  led  her,  in  spite  of  panto 
mimic  remonstrance,  along  the  bare  hallway  and  down 
the  stairs. 

The  elder's  high,  sweet  voice,  just  a  trifle  clearer 
now  than  the  circumstances  seemed  to  demand, 
scattered  bright  echoes.  She  was  planning  viva 
ciously  their  dual  "dates"  and  pleasures  for  the  day, 
and  her  words  swept  back.  The  mother  strove  hard 
not  to  hear  them.  Now  the  speaker  laughed.  It 
was  a  mellifluous  sound.  Lucille  had  been  at  some 
pains  to  cultivate  it.  Ciceley  shrank  back  as  though 
it  were  the  swinging  tips  of  a  knout.  It  was  not  so 
much  panic  or  surprise  at  Lucille's  laughing  which 
sent  her  cowering  down,  but  a  sick  dread  of  the  little 
one's  answering  mirth.  But  Sylvia  did  not  laugh. 
Assured  of  this,  Ciceley  drew  a  long  quivering  breath 
of  thankfulness,  and  for  an  instant  let  her  lids  droop. 

After  the  two  had  reached  the  dining  room,  with 
the  door  closed  behind  them,  the  mother  again  lay 


154  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

silent  and  still.  She  felt  the  quiet  as  it  were  a  tide 
of  deep  warm  influence  on  which  she  could  let  her 
weary  spirit  drift.  In  a  moment  more,  through  the 
window,  she  heard  old  Mammy  shuffling  along  the 
flagstone  walk.  From  the  slow,  measured  tread, 
Ciceley  knew  that  she  was  bringing  in  breakfast. 
The  sudden  alarm  that  Mammy  might  think  it  neces 
sary  to  bring  a  second  tray  to  her  mistress'  room  drove 
the  small  figure  to  an  upright  posture.  She  frowned 
anxiously,  and  glanced  here  and  there  as  if  for  escape. 
It  was  certain  that  she  could  not  remain  in  bed,  the 
prey  not  only  of  circling,  unhappy  thoughts,  but  of 
constant  fear  of  intrusion. 

On  one  corner  of  her  footboard  she  had  hung  the  day 
before  a  shabby  old  black  skirt.  This  was  to  remind 
her  that  it  needed  a  new  binding.  It  was  always 
difficult  for  Ciceley  to  remember  to  do  things  for  her 
self. 

A  desire  to  begin  the  homely  occupation  seized  her. 
She  was  always  more  tranquil  when  she  sewed. 
There  was  something  of  hypnotic  soothing  in  the 
rhythmic  process. 

Revivified  by  the  definite  objective,  she  was  half 
out  of  bed  when,  all  at  once,  she  remembered  that 
her  sewing  materials  were  in  a  room  directly  over 
that  in  which  the  girls  were  breakfasting.  She 
stiffened  in  the  attitude  of  egress. 

Sewing  had  become  of  recent  years  a  large  dimension 
of  Ciceley's  habitual  drudgery.  This  upper  wing 
room,  otherwise  unused,  had  been  fitted  up  for  the 
sole  purpose.  The  old  family  machine  was  there,  a 
clattering,  archaic  specimen.  To  the  girls  it  was  the 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  155 

object  of  much  merry  scorn.  Lucille  declared  its 
noise  got  on  her  nerves.  Down  on  the  cool  verandah, 
or,  in  winter,  by  the  great  dining-room  fire,  she  would 
sometimes  work  upon  the  daintier  accessories,  whip 
ping  on  lace,  or  making  up  bows  of  ribbon.  The  little 
one  generally  kept  close.  Besides,  one  would  as  soon 
think  of  having  a  butterfly  wash  windows  as  of  seeing 
little  Sylvia  sew !  Ciceley  remained  alone  in  the 
sewing-room  for  many  hours  at  a  time,  unquestioningly 
content  with  her  self-imposed  toil. 

The  machine  was  piled  high  this  morning,  as 
Ciceley  well  knew,  with  diaphanous  lengths  of  white 
organdie,  "sprigged"  with  a  small  green  fern,  des 
tined  to  be  made  into  a  dress  for  Lucille.  There  was 
nearly  always  on  the  old  machine  a  similar  heap  of 
fragile  beauty.  Because  of  it  Ciceley,  quite  cheer 
fully  oblivious  of  the  fact,  went  shabby.  It  was  one 
phase  in  her  passionate  pride  in  their  beauty,  this 
choosing  and  fashioning  of  new  garments  for  her 
daughters.  In  her  adoring  eyes  each  triumph,  when 
completed,  when  patted,  pinned,  and  adjusted  by  her 
own  careful  hands  upon  its  allotted  possessor,  brought 
to  the  surface  some  fresh  and  hitherto  unappreciated 
loveliness. 

Under  these  self-annihilating  reflections,  Ciceley's 
weak  mother  heart,  discarding  personal  necessities, 
began  to  yearn  toward  the  fern-sprigged  fabric.  She 
held  out  a  hand,  moving  her  fingers  dreamily.  The 
soft  fabric  moved  between  them.  She  knew  just  how 
she  wished  those  folds  about  the  throat  to  lie.  And 
what  joy  it  would  be,  just  seeing  that  moonlight- 
colored  throat  of  Lucille 's  rising  above  the  folds ! 


156  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

A  clear,  mocking  laugh,  darting  into  the  silence, 
came  in  small  silvery  shivers  to  her  ears.  Her  face 
changed.  She  set  her  mouth  as  sternly  as  its  gentle 
curving  would  permit,  and,  getting  from  the  bed  at  a 
single  bound,  said  to  herself  that  Lucille's  sewing 
should  go  untouched  for  that  day  at  least.  An  in 
stinct,  wise  as  it  was  unusual,  told  her  that  a  resump 
tion  of  servitude  at  this  point  would  be  construed  by 
Lucille  as  utter  and  complete  capitulation. 

Both  for  her  own  sake  and  for  that  of  the  tall  girl 
who  had  humiliated,  and  was  still  defying  her,  the 
mother  knew  that  she  must  find  some  way  of  self- 
assertion.  But  where  was  she  to  turn?  What  path 
had  been  left  open  ?  No  Gulliver  was  ever  more  help 
lessly  bound  by  Lilliputian  filaments  than  she  by  her 
self-wrought  chains  of  maternal  thralldom. 

With  an  anxious  little  frown,  she  rose  and  walked 
on  bare  feet  to  the  nearest  window.  She  pushed  the 
old  green  shutter  wide,  and  for  an  instant  caught  her 
breath,  dazed  by  the  sudden  brilliancy.  It  was  a 
world  of  blue  and  gold  and  green.  No  wind  stirred. 
The  mocking-birds  were  as  busy  as  if  it  had  been 
May.  After  her  first  delighted  sense  of  beauty  came 
the  reaction  of  a  plaintive  questioning.  "How  can 
the  old,  familiar  world  be  so  beautiful,  when  I  am  so 
unhappy?" 

She  leaned  out  farther.  The  sunshine  encircled 
her  with  warm  and  sentient  arms.  Serene  and  still 
under  her  gaze  lay  the  sun-steeped  garden.  And  at 
the  sight,  her  heart,  as  though  it  had  been  a  thing  of 
separate  volition,  moved  softly  out  of  her  breast 
to  go  straying  along  the  flower-bordered  paths.  At 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  157 

last  she  had  found  and  recognized  her  conscious 
haven. 

Now  she  began  to  dress  with  such  celerity  that  one 
might  have  thought  her  striving  to  outrace  a  second, 
and  this  time  an  hindering  impulse.  Her  imagina 
tion  was  held  rigidly  to  the  single  goal.  "  My  garden  ! 
My  dear  garden!"  she  kept  whispering.  The  words 
were  a  sort  of  invocation. 

She  swerved  a  little  in  wondering  why  the  vision  of 
this  refuge  had  not  come  to  her  first  of  all ;  but,  being 
peculiarly  unversed  in  self-analysis,  did  not  persist 
to  the  obvious  solution.  This  work  among  her 
flowers,  being  Ciceley's  one  and  only  personal  joy,  was 
inevitably  the  last  to  be  indulged  and  the  first  to  suffer 
inhibition.  To  give,  as  now  she  was  determined  upon 
giving,  the  rise  of  a  busy  forenoon  to  its  alluring 
practice,  showed  an  advance  toward  individual 
freedom  little  short  of  anarchy. 

The  black  skirt,  still  unrepaired,  was  hastily  as 
sumed.  For  a  waist  she  put  on  a  cast-off  blouse  of 
Lucille's ;  and,  reaching  about  for  a  warmer  covering, 
caught  up  a  shapeless  garment  that  had  once  been  a 
white  sweater,  the  property  of  little  Sylvia.  Perceiv 
ing  that  it  had  been  definitely  discarded,  Ciceley,  in 
one  of  the  spurts  of  thrift  employed  only  toward  her 
self,  had  attempted  to  dye  it  black.  The  result,  both 
as  to  general  outline  and  to  color,  had  been  something 
distressingly  resembling  an  ancient,  piebald  horse. 

The  summit  and  completion  of  this  outfit  awaited 
her  down-stairs,  in  the  shape  of  a  wide  straw  hat. 
In  antithesis  to  the  sweater,  it  had  started  in  by  being 
a  glossy  black,  and  had  assumed  by  less  arbitrary 


158  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

methods  its  present  aspect  of  mottled,  dingy  grayness. 
It  was  kept  always  on  a  certain  nail,  —  rusty,  of 
course,  —  in  a  tiny  shed  where  Ciceley  housed  her 
gardening  implements,  stacks  of  empty  flower-pots, 
earth-sifters,  stakes  for  tying  up  discouraged  plants, 
and  a  great,  shaggy  bunch  of  raffia. 

At  her  door  seemed  to  lie  in  wait  a  wraith  of  her 
usual  timidity.  Only  for  an  instant  it  held  her,  then 
throwing  up  her  chin  with  a  gesture,  had  she  known  it, 
not  unlike  that  of  Lucille,  she  moved  with  quick  steps 
down  to  the  lower  hall  and  out  through  the  back  door 
to  her  tool-house.  She  would  not  let  herself  surmise 
what  the  girls  were  thinking.  Instead,  she  said  to 
herself  that  she  hoped  old  Mammy  had  not  noticed 
her. 

With  the  trowel  securely  grasped,  and  the  old  hat 
tied  at  a  most  unbecoming  angle  over  her  hastily- 
brushed  hair,  she  felt  a  definite  accession  of  valor. 
Now,  in  a  sense,  she  was  queen.  Humbly  and 
quaintly  crowned,  indeed,  and  with  a  mud-stained 
scepter ;  but  none  the  less  a  sovereign,  the  undisputed 
holder  of  a  wide,  green  realm. 

She  hurried  on,  not  daring  a  backward  glance  until, 
knowing  herself  well-screened  by  a  thick  gardenia 
hedge,  she  came  to  a  standstill,  her  whole  body  droop 
ing  in  an  instinctive  and  soothing  relaxation. 

There  was  no  special  place  to  begin.  The  dear 
flowers  at  all  times  and  seasons  were  grateful  for  her 
ministrations.  Now,  in  the  autumn  months,  the 
worst  of  the  marauding  weeds  were  over.  She  looked 
about  with  slow,  appraising  ease.  A  little  holiday 
wind  rose  in  her  heart,  blowing  away  the  mists. 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  159 

A  redbird,  which  year  after  year  had  builded  in  the 
same  down-hanging  limb  of  an  old  pear  tree,  swung  on 
a  near-by  twig  to  welcome  her.  She  smiled  at  the 
crimson  chorister,  so  like  a  heart  set  free.  After 
all,  the  world  had  its  own  right  to  be  beautiful ! 

The  fall  crop  of  violets  was  in  full  bloom.  Stooping 
to  a  purple  mass,  she  noticed  among  the  leaves  intrud 
ing  stems  of  the  alert  green  duckweed.  Even  in 
winter  these  jaunty  pirates  often  ventured  among  the 
legitimate  anchorage.  High  on  the  tips  waved  a  few 
white  stars  of  flowers,  small  hopeless  flags  of  truce. 

The  gardener  sighed.  Destruction  of  a  weed 
brought  to  her  always  a  tiny  stab  of  remorse.  Nerv 
ing  herself  to  the  distasteful  necessity,  she  ran  bare 
fingers  along  the  earth  until  the  central  stem  of  the 
interloper  met  her  touch,  at  which  she  gave  a  des 
perate,  though  reluctant  tug.  It  came  up  whole. 
Ciceley  would  never  wear  gloves  while  digging  among 
her  flowers,  having  a  secret  theory  that  they  under 
stood  and  in  their  own  way  resented  the  fastidious 
snobbery. 

On  her  outstretched  palm,  conserving  its  posture 
of  vitality,  the  chickweed  lay.  She  gazed  long  at  it, 
and  to  her  mind  came  a  troubled  analogy  between 
its  forcibly  uprooted  condition  and  her  own.  A  few 
green,  oval  seed-pods  had  already  formed.  They 
would  make  a  dainty  salad-course  for  Sylvia's  canary's 
breakfast.  In  lieu  of  the  forbidden  kittens,  the  little 
one  had  transferred  her  desire  for  living  pets  first  to 
a  family  of  white  rabbits,  and  later  on  to  a  particularly 
shrill  canary.  All  such  objects  of  emotional  appeal 
were  by  the  elder  girl  frankly  and  openly  despised. 


160  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

She  had  no  need  of  pets.  For  a  long  moment  Ciceley 
struggled  against  the  temptation  to  lay  it  aside  in 
some  sheltered  nook  where  she  could  find  it  later. 
Then,  with  a  tightening  of  the  lips,  she  threw  it  from 
her.  It  caught  among  the  stems  of  a  leafless  rosebush, 
sprawled  like  a  pigmy  octopus,  and  finally  hung 
flaccid  and  ignominiously  undone.  At  this  she  rose 
quickly  and  moved  on,  well  from  the  sight  of  it. 
Weeding  was  not  to  be  her  chosen  occupation  for  this 
particular  morning. 

Next  she  was  claimed  by  a  small  camellia  bush, 
which,  for  no  reason  she  had  been  able  to  fathom, 
persisted  in  being  an  "ailing  child."  Its  blossoms, 
though  always  sparse,  were  of  a  peculiar  beauty,  a 
transparent,  waxen  white,  shading  in  the  center  to  a 
luminous  green,  the  hue  of  chrysoprase.  If  Lucille 
could  be  said  to  have  a  favorite  flower,  it  was  this. 

As  a  mother  over  a  cradle,  Ciceley  now  bent  down 
to  the  little  shrub.  She  counted,  as  many  times 
before,  the  number  of  round,  tightly  folded  buds. 
There  were  but  five,  a  scantier  yield  than  usual.  She 
must  see  to  it  that  none  of  these  fell  off.  How 
exquisite  Lucille  had  looked  that  day,  now  nearly  a 
year  ago,  as  she  had  started  off  to  Betty  Ravenel's 
party.  Her  gown,  all  white  and  clinging,  had  been 
made  of  course  by  the  little  mother's  hands.  Even 
now,  in  retrospect,  she  smiled  at  the  triumph  of  it. 
For  ornament  the  girl  had  worn  a  single  bloom  of 
this  camellia.  Against  that  calm  young  breast  it 
had  seemed  to  take  on  the  virtue  of  a  talisman,  a 
symbol  of  purity,  —  passionless,  mystical,  —  wrought 
out  of  distant,  moonlit  snows.  She  held  the  lovely 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  161 

image  in  her  memory  as  one  holds  a  priceless  treasure 
in  the  two  hands.  Then,  with  a  splintering  blow, 
the  thought  struck,  —  it  was  this  same  exquisite, 
virginal  thing,  her  own  child,  who  last  night  — 

With  a  low  cry  she  fell  to  her  knees  and  commenced 
a  precipitate  digging.  Her  trowel-stabs  thrust  deep, 
one  after  the  other,  into  the  very  substance  of  per 
plexity.  Yet  to  what  purpose  ?  This  was  at  best  an 
outlet,  a  mere  physical  relief  from  an  inner  tension ! 
Where  could  she  go,  or  what  employment  turn  to, 
when  each  encountered  object,  be  it  weed  or  flower, 
served  as  a  swift,  malignant  clue  to  drag  her  back 
ward  into  the  blind  maze  of  her  problem  ? 

She  must  assert  herself !  This  was  indubitably 
clear.  But  how?  Was  she  not  at  the  very  moment 
essaying  it?  And  for  all  result  that  she  could  see, 
there  was  only  a  deepening  of  chaos.  She  paused  in 
her  work  to  give  this  phase  of  impotence  a  wider  con 
sideration.  After  all,  it  had  a  tinge  of  the  unreason 
able,  the  fantastic,  that  a  mother  should  feel  so  utterly 
baffled  by  the  perversity  of  her  own  child.  If  only 
she  could  manage  to  detach  the  thousand  filaments 
of  habit.  If  she  could  see  with  an  outside  mind. 
Prayer  had  not  helped  her,  nor  the  long  sleepless 
hours  through  which  she  had  wept  and  striven  in  her 
attempt  at  resolution.  She  was  too  close  to  the  core 
of  her  dilemma,  too  much  a  part  of  it.  Vaguely  she 
was  conscious  that  the  thing  she  most  needed  was  that 
which  least  she  could  give,  —  an  intelligent  perspec 
tive.  And  who  was  to  grant  it  ? 

As  if  silence  had  spoken,  came  the  word  "Jim." 
Ciceley  started  and  looked  fearfully  about.  The 


i'62  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

sound  had  been  astonishingly  real.  Nothing  moved 
except  the  redbird,  which,  on  the  earth  a  few  feet 
from  her  had  been  watching  with  a  hopeful  and 
expectant  eye  the  swift  upturnings  of  her  trowel. 

Yes,  Jim  was  of  course  always  ready  to  help  her, 
but  his  presence  last  night  had  done  more  harm  than 
good.  His  persistent  and  ludicrous  attitude  toward 
herself,  apart  from  his  now  declared  hostility  to  Lucille, 
made  him,  in  Ciceley's  mind  at  least,  an  impossible 
and  undesirable  ally. 

Yet  if  he  had  really  meant  what  he  said  last  night ! 
Strange  that  of  all  his  words,  these  should  remain  so 
clearly:  "This  time  it's  a  promise  to  me!  —  This 
time  it  is  going  to  be  kept." 

The  trowel  hung  suspended.  Ciceley's  face  grew 
just  a  little  dreamy.  For  the  first  time  in  all  that 
troubled  morning,  her  thoughts  were  away  from  the 
girls.  "Pshaw!"  she  exclaimed,  under  her  breath. 
"Of  course  it  was  mere  bravado.  He's  promised  it  a 
hundred  times  before.  Jim  couldn't  really  —  Poor 
silly  Jim!"  The  brown  head  under  its  faded  hat 
tossed  with  a  hint  of  coquetry.  Though  all  the  rest 
of  her  universe  should  shift,  here  was  a  point  of  im 
mobility.  No  matter  what  his  absurd,  sporadic 
efforts  to  escape,  no  matter  how  she  chose  to  treat 
him,  Jim  was  her  own,  her  bonded  slave. 

A  specially  vigorous  dig  emphasized  her  conviction 
of  this  sentiment.  The  contents  of  the  trowel  were 
scattered  high  in  air.  Then,  with  a  stifled  shriek, 
Ciceley  sat  back  to  her  heels,  quivering  with  re 
pugnance.  She  had  bisected  a  large,  pink  earth 
worm! 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  163 

The  redbird,  catching  the  wriggling  sight,  echoed 
her  cry  with  a  note  of  ecstasy.  Two  bounds  on  the 
spring  wires  of  his  feet  set  him  upon  a  partial  victim. 
Ciceley  again  fled. 

When,  with  a  little  hysterical  laugh,  she  came  back 
to  a  more  rational  present,  she  found  herself  leaning 
deep  into  the  yielding  pyramid  of  an  arbor-vitas  bush. 
Though  not  particularly  tall,  its  apex  rose  a  foot  above 
her.  It  was  warm,  resinous,  caressing,  —  almost 
sentient.  She  held  a  flat  spray  against  her  face, 
loving  it  for  its  screening  and  its  perfume. 

She  had  moved  forward,  in  the  act  of  quitting  it, 
when  the  sound  of  young  voices  coming  from  the 
direction  of  the  house  drove  her  back  farther  into  her 
leafy  tent. 

The  girls,  their  arms  entwined,  moved  straight 
toward  her.  The  curve  of  the  driveway  they  fol 
lowed  would  bring  them  almost  within  touch  of  her 
hand.  She  decided  on  the  instant  to  remain  in 
hiding.  She  was  not  ready  to  face  them  both,  just 
now. 

Sylvia  was  bareheaded,  her  brown  curls  lit  to  copper 
in  the  sun.  Lucille,  who  took  no  chances  with  her 
marvellous  complexion,  wore  a  pale  green  ''Dutch" 
bonnet  tied  with  wide  strings  under  her  chin.  Framed 
in  its  cool  green  shadow,  the  girl's  face  was  more  than 
ever  like  a  perfect  flower. 

"There  is  no  need  of  worrying  about  it  any  longer, 
Sylvia,"  she  was  saying  in  her  clear,  decisive  voice. 
"You  know  that  mother  goes  around  the  house  looking 
like  a  scarecrow ;  and  you  were  just  as  much  annoyed, 
last  night,  as  I  was,  to  have  those  strangers  see  her." 


164  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Still,  —  she  is  mother !"  demurred  little  Sylvia,  — 
a  quaver  in  her  voice  that  made  the  thrilled  eaves 
dropper  long  to  rush  forth,  and  clasp  the  speaker  in 
her  arms. 

"Of  course  she  is  'mother.'  That's  the  whole 
trouble.  If  she  wasn't,  why  should  we  care?"  re 
torted  Lucille,  with  a  logic  as  pitiless  as  it  was  un 
answerable. 

"When  it  comes  to  Uncle  Jim,"  she  pursued  scorn 
fully,  "the  sight  of  his  baggy  trousers  and  grease- 
spotted  waistcoat  literally  makes  me  ill.  I  am  not 
sorry  for  a  single  word  I  said  to  him  last  night.  The 
idea  of  his  trying  to  bully  me !  I  only  wish  I  had 
said  more." 

The  abysmal  silence  of  the  little  one,  following  this 
spirited  declaration,  might  well  have  been  filled  with 
conjectures  as  to  what  more  her  sister  could  have  said. 

"I'm  tired  of  seeing  the  lovesick  old  thing  about, 
anyway,"  was  Lucille's  next  heartless  asseveration. 
As  an  indication  of  the  contempt  in  which  she  held 
the  Colonel's  middle-aged  devotion,  she  flecked  lightly 
a  spray  of  the  very  shrub  where  Ciceley  crouched. 

"And  furthermore,"  the  clear  young  voice  rang  out, 
"I  wish  that  mother  would  come  to  a  decision  for  once 
in  her  life,  and  either  send  him  away,  or  make  up  her 
mind  to  marry  him." 

Down  its  entire  length  the  arbor  vitae  shivered. 
Its  denizen  made  a  swift,  indignant,  forward  step. 
The  scorn  in  her  daughter's  voice,  touching  on  Jim, 
was  more  than  loyalty  to  that  lifelong  friend  could 
bear.  Words  of  remonstrance  burned  unuttered  on 
her  lips,  as  the  two  girls  paced  on. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  165 

Ciceley,  now  well  in  the  open,  watched  their 
retreat.  Even  at  the  gate,  in  their  pause  over  the 
lifting  of  the  latch,  not  a  backward  glance  was  thrown. 

For  once  in  her  life  Ciceley  trembled,  not  with 
timidity,  but  real  anger.  As  if  the  girl's  outrageous 
attack  of  the  evening  before  had  not  been  sufficient 
for  rancour,  here,  under  the  open  sky,  with  no  excuse, 
provocation,  or  incentive,  again  she  denied  Jim's 
deepest  reserves  with  her  levity.  Again  she  was 
speaking,  not  only  of  him,  but  of  her  own  mother 
with  as  little  of  tenderness  or  reverence  as  though 
it  were  Mammy  and  Uncle  Snow. 

Until  last  night's  sinister  awakening,  Ciceley  had 
believed  Jim's  secret  inviolate.  The  shame  of  its 
open  derision  reflected  on  her.  Truly,  the  time  had 
come  for  Lucille's  recalcitrant  spirit  to  be  given  a 
curb.  But  anew  came  the  blank  query,  "How?" 
Was  Jim  in  the  right  when  he  said  she  could  no  longer, 
unaided,  manage  her  children?  Was  he  only  too 
right  when  he  called  them  "young  pelicans"? 

Ciceley  glanced  back  to  the  house.  Over  the 
door,  at  this  distance,  the  bronze,  oval  sign  was  a 
mere  dot  of  darkness.  Instinctively  she  pressed 
both  hands  on  her  breast.  Yes,  the  image  was  true. 
No  physical  wounds  would  be  more  tangible  than 
those  Lucille's  cruelty  had  dealt. 

She  lifted  her  head,  looking  around  as  if  to  assure 
herself  that  her  environment,  at  least,  should  be 
familiar.  Now  she  drew  in  long  breaths.  She  must 
think  now,  as  never  before.  Surely  deep,  prayerful 
thought  would  lead  her  to  some  resolution. 

Careless  of  direction,  she  moved  forward  in  reverie, 


166  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

and  stepped  down  to  the  long  curving  drive.  It 
was  deep  in  white  sand.  Each  footprint  so  recently 
made  by  the  girls  had  left  a  clear  intaglio.  Sub 
consciously  she  followed  in  these,  matching  her 
small  shoe  first  to  one,  then  another.  Her  down 
cast  eyes,  still  for  a  time  half  unseeing,  became 
of  themselves,  as  it  were,  aware  of  a  something 
in  the  tracks  that  was  not  just  right.  The  sense 
of  this  vague  incongruity  teased  her.  Her  deeper 
mental  process  resented  the  distraction,  which,  gain 
ing  strength,  yet  persisted.  She  frowned.  Yes, 
there  was  something  quite  wrong  with  those  tracks. 
Now,  all  at  once,  it  was  clear.  One  of  the  heels  had 
run  down.  Run-down  heels,  if  not  straightened, 
would  distort  the  wearer's  ankles.  Both  of  her  girls 
had  the  feet  of  young  thoroughbreds.  Lucille  was 
specially  complacent  about  hers. 

Ciceley  stooped  lower.  All  of  her  inner  ratiocina 
tions  had  fled.  She  felt  that  she  must  determine  at 
once  just  which  of  the  girls  was  wearing  the  menacing 
heel.  Old  Peter,  the  Hill  cobbler,  could  fix  it.  She 
tracked  it,  step  by  step,  and  thus  led,  had  come  up 
to  the  gate. 

Now,  with  a  fling  vital,  imperious,  compelling,  the 
stirrup  latch  went  back  upon  its  boss.  Ciceley,  with 
a  convulsive  start,  looked  up.  A  lady  was  entering, 
a  stranger,  gowned  in  quiet  though  unmistakable 
elegance.  Ciceley's  first  thought  was  one  of  conscious 
thankfulness  that  Lucille  was  away  and  could  not 
score  her  with  a  look  for  her  imprudence  in  being 
"caught  "  by  so  wonderful  a  visitor.  Of  course  she 
was  one  of  Lucille's  new,  fashionable  friends  ! 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  167 

But  no,  the  slim,  gracious  figure,  entirely  at  ease, 
kept  swiftly  on  its  forward  course.  There  was  no 
hesitation,  as  surely  there  would  be  on  a  first  visit  to 
a  home  entirely  unfamiliar,  especially  at  a  chance 
encounter  with  an  unknown  hostess. 

Now  she  was  smiling  directly  into  Ciceley's  eyes. 
The  charming  face  brightened  with  its  certainty  of 
welcome. 

"Why,  Sis,  —  dear  little  Sis !"  she  cried. 

Then  Ciceley  knew. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

JULIA  STARTS  SOMETHING 

"  JULE,"  cried  out  Ciceley,  in  a  voice  that  splintered 
the  tense  silence.  After,  she  stood  there  quivering. 
Astonishment,  incredulity,  and  a  thing  that  touched 
on  fear,  made  of  her  face  a  veritable  emotional  play 
ground. 

Julia  ran  up  to  her,  and,  daring  the  frayed  edges 
of  the  hat,  leaned  to  bestow  on  either  cheek  a  warm, 
deliberate  kiss. 

Ciceley  submitted,  half -uncomprehending,  and  then 
drew  back,  as  if  dimly  conscious  of  wishing  to  retain 
a  better  focus  upon  the  apparition,  a  clearer  space  of 
air  in  which  to  breathe.  Though  by  her  external 
senses  she  knew  it  to  be  Julia,  something  still  deeper 
kept  whispering  that  she  might  be  harboring  a 
phantasy.  It  was  as  if  her  cousin's  youth,  resusci 
tate  and  gloriously  transfigured,  had  suddenly  come 
back  to  find  her  old.  Out  of  the  sting  of  this  revela 
tion  a  single  question  flew,  "Has  Jim  seen  you  yet?" 

A  queer  light  danced  for  an  instant  behind  Julia's 
spotted  veil.  Then  she  began  to  laugh.  Among  her 
social  tenets  one  of  the  most  successful  was  "  When 
ever  you  find  yourself  in  a  tight  place,  —  laugh ! " 

1 68 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  169 

This  she  now  did  and  at  such  length  that  Ciceley 
began  to  display  an  added  phase  of  stupefaction.  She 
could  not  know  that  behind  the  spangled  screen  of 
artificial  merriment,  Julia's  quick  mind  was  under 
going  a  series  of  vaudeville  transformations.  At 
last  the  chosen  guise  stepped  out. 

"The  idea  of  your  asking  me  if  I  have  seen  any  one 
else  before  coming  to  you!"  she  cried,  with  tender 
reproach.  "Why,  Sis,  from  the  very  minute  I  turned 
my  face  south,  I  said  to  myself,  '  First  of  all  I  shall 
go  straight  to  Little  Sunshine.'  Now  I  am  really 
here,"  she  skurried  on,  not  daring  to  draw  breath, 
"it  is  lovelier  and  dearer  than  all  my  homesick  dreams 
of  it.  You  too,  dear  little  Sis,  are  sweeter  and  prettier 
than  dreams  have  had  you.  I  am  so  glad  to  be  with 
you  once  more.  Are  you  not  just  a  little  glad  to  see 
me?" 

"Of  course,"  stammered  Ciceley,  her  instinct  of 
hospitality  beating  a  pathway  through  chaos.  "But, 
—  but  why  didn't  you  write  anybody?  When  did 
you  get  here  ?  What  —  what  on  earth  have  you  done 
to  yourself?" 

Again  Julia  laughed,  but  now  it  was  spontaneous. 
Her  purpose  had  already  been  achieved.  From 
Ciceley's  maze  of  questioning  more  than  one  clue  of 
safety  could  be  drawn.  Grasping  the  first,  and  assum 
ing  an  air  of  reproof,  humorously  exaggerated,  she 
flung  out,  "And  have  you  the  nerve,  Ciceley  Talia- 
ferro,  to  ask  me  why  I  didn't  write?" 

Ciceley's  eyes  fell. 

"Well,  never  mind.  I  forgive  you.  I  am  too 
happy  right  now  to  hold  a  grudge  against  anybody." 


170  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

Here  she  caught  Ciceley's  arm  in  hers.  "Come,  let's 
go  in,  so  we  can  talk." 

For  a  few  paces  they  moved  silently  toward  the 
house.  Julia  was  sending  her  smiling  gaze  this  way 
and  that,  touching  each  instant  some  long  forgotten 
object  with  the  light  of  reminiscence.  For  Ciceley 
there  was  but  one  thing  visible,  the  shimmering  gray 
figure  at  her  side. 

"Oh,  Jule,"  she  finally  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  that 
held  a  sort  of  naive  and  childish  despair,  "you  are 
prettier  than  you  ever  were  as  a  girl." 

"Now  don't  you  go  trying  to  turn  my  gray  head! 
I  was  just  looking  at  the  dear,  rose-covered  summer- 
house,  and  thinking  what  centuries  it  had  been  since 
we  used  to  go  over  your  lessons  there." 

"Gray!  Where's  any  gray?"  demanded  Ciceley, 
peering  up  at  what  tendrils  could  be  seen  beneath  the 
close-fitting  toque,  at  the  side  of  which  perched  airily 
a  single  long  stiff  quill  of  white.  Then,  with  apparent 
irrelevance,  "Where  is  your  boy?" 

"He  rode  out  with  me,  but  I  sent  him  on  to  Stag 
Harbor,  to  give  Jim  a  surprise.  He'll  be  here  later. 
Just  at  first  I  had  a  fancy  for  seeing  you  alone." 

"Yes,  that  is  better,"  approved  Ciceley,  with  an 
under  satisfaction  more  obvious  than  she  realized. 
"My  girls  have  just  stepped  up  to  the  post-office." 

This  fact  she  stated  in  a  composed,  maternal  way, 
as  if  it  had  been  her  errand  on  which  the  girls  were 
sent. 

"I'm  glad  to  sort  of  get  used  to  you  before  they 
come  back,"  she  went  on,  but  the  attempted  laugh 
ended  in  an  uncertain  quaver.  "I  don't  seem  able 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  171 

to  get  used  to  you.  It's  not  only  that  you  look  so 
different.  Even  the  sound  of  your  voice  is  changed." 

"Oh,  just  a  taint  of  Anglophobia,"  tossed  Julia 
lightly,  "I'll  shed  it  soon  enough  down  here!" 

As  the  front  steps  were  reached,  Ciceley  stopped 
short,  her  eyes  brightening  with  mischief.  "Let's 
go  round  by  the  kitchen  and  see  if  Mammy  Nycie 
will  recognize  you." 

Hand  in  hand,  giggling  in  the  subdued,  anticipatory 
manner  of  naughty  schoolgirls,  the  two  contrastingly 
attired  figures,  one  an  advance  of  modishness  from 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  the  other  a  shapeless  bundle  of 
rejected  garments,  ran  through  the  hedges  and  with 
out  ceremony  into  the  unsuspecting  Mammy's  domain. 

The  old  woman  was  seated  on  a  stool  facing  the 
door.  She  held  precariously  on  her  fat  knees  a  large 
tin  dish-pan  of  "cow  peas"  which  she  was  shelling. 
The  process  had  swung,  as  was  usual  in  the  perform 
ance  of  her  homely  tasks,  into  a  definite  rhythm, 
accompanied  by  the  contralto  humming  of  a  gospel 
tune. 

At  the  abrupt  incursion,  the  singer  glanced  up 
frowning.  Such  lack  of  ceremony  had  generally 
heralded  the  advent  of  one  or  both  of  "dem  gals." 

Mammy's  lips  formed  themselves  quickly  for  a 
sharp  reproach.  She  had  warned  them  too  often 
against  "bustin'  in  on  her"  like  this.  Once  she  had 
hinted  darkly  at  a  possible  result  of  "nervous  per 
spiration." 

But  the  lips  so  instinctively  relaxed  widened  and 
stayed  apart,  and  seemingly  had  no  power  to  close. 
The  large  eyes  rolled,  and  then  fixed  themselves  on  the 


172  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

smiling  and  already  half-familiar  ones  in  the  door 
way.  Swift  certainty  flashed  an  electric  spark 
between,  and  in  her  wonder  of  recognition,  Mammy 
gave  forth  a  cry,  and  threw  both  hands  in  air. 

At  this  the  pan  slipped  down,  striking  the  bare 
floor  with  a  frightful  clatter.  The  peas,  both  shelled 
and  unshelled,  skipped  wide,  heaping  themselves 
into  games  of  vegetable  jackstraws. 

"Good  Gawd  A'mighty!"  breathed  out  the  awed 
one,  when  she  could  speak.  "Ef  it  ain't  little  Miss 
Julia  Wickford  done  turnt  into  de  Queen  ob  Sheeby !" 

At  this  Julia,  laughing  hugely,  wheeled  round  to 
•Ciceley  in  order  to  share  the  delight.  Mammy's  eyes 
went  there  too.  Then  slowly  the  childish,  vaguely- 
puzzled  gaze  returned  to  the  radiant  visitor. 

"Well,  this  is  better  than  we  could  have  hoped  for, 
isn't  it,  Sis?"  cried  out  the  quick-witted  Julia.  "Do 
you  know,  Mammy,  you  recognized  me  a  whole  lot 
sooner  than  Miss  Ciceley  did?  But  I  am  sorry  about 
the  peas.  Let  me  help  you  gather  them  up." 

Not  for  nothing  had  Julia  been  born  a  Southerner. 
At  the  first  tentative  reach  of  her  gloved  hand  toward 
a  heap  of  shells,  Mammy,  with  one  bound,  came 
literally  and  figuratively  into  her  own.  "He-ah! 
He-ah,  now !  Miss  Julia,"  she  remonstrated,  shooing 
the  would-be  helper  away  as  she  might  a  hen,  "you 
stop  dat  grubbin'  on  my  flo'.  Dis  ain't  no  place  fer 
you,  no-how." 

"That  means  that  we're  to  get  out,"  said  Ciceley 
merrily.  "  Come  on." 

They  entered  by  the  back  door  of  the  house,  Ciceley 
instinctively  leading  toward  the  dining  room.  A 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  173 

pleasant  low  fire  was  at  home.  Over  it  and  the  big 
mantel  hung  a  large  gold-framed  portrait  of  Henry 
Bering,  done  in  oils.  The  pictured  face,  under  the 
dual  lighting  of  morning  and  the  reflected  glow  of  the 
fire,  showed  a  mysterious  animation.  The  dark, 
narrow  eyes  menaced  the  doorway.  The  lips,  red 
as  they  were  in  life,  thin  and  subtly  ironic,  flickered 
an  instant,  then  shut  close.  The  whole  tense  coun 
tenance  now  seemed  to  be  watching  Julia. 

Ciceley  had  not  glanced  up.  The  dominant 
presence  had  with  her  become  a  habit.  But  Julia, 
deliberately  halting,  challenged  the  cold  eyes  with 
her  own.  On  her  lips  too  came  the  ghost  of  a 
scornful  flicker.  "You  varnished  hypocrite!"  she 
thought. 

Becoming  conscious  of  the  other's  fixity,  Ciceley, 
still  sparkling  with  merriment,  looked  round.  As  if 
by  a  stroke  of  grim  magic,  the  bright  face  sobered 
to  the  image  of  inconsolable  grief.  She  crept  back  to 
Julia  softly,  leaning  against  her  arm.  A  sigh,  long- 
drawn,  plaintive,  and  filled  with  resignation,  issued 
through  quivering  lips.  Now  the  brown  eyes,  ador 
ingly  lifted,  fawned  on  the  painted  icon. 

Julia  encircled  the  drooping  figure,  holding  it  close 
as  she  mused  aloud,  "What  a  great  comfort  it  must 
be  to  Henry,  even  if  he's  dead,  to  know  that  he  left 
behind  him  such  a  flattering  portrait.  I  really  think 
I  shall  have  to  look  up  the  artist.  You  remember 
how  dreadfully  one-sided  poor  Henry's  nose  was? 
In  his  picture  it  is  made  to  appear  quite  straight." 

The  sigh  broke  into  a  horrified  gasp.  The  eyes  fell 
suddenly,  —  two  birds  at  a  single  shot.  Pushing  her- 


174  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

self  off,  Ciceley  fixed  them  in  shrinking  incredulous 
dismay  on  she  who  had  uttered  blasphemy. 

But  that  artless  person,  smiling  and  singularly 
self-possessed,  was  already  moving  forward  to  the 
fireplace. 

!  "  May  I  sit  here  ?  Is  it  dear  old  Jim's  special  corner 
still  ?  "  she  enquired  in  a  breath,  waving  a  gloved  hand 
in  the  direction  of  the  leather  chair. 

Ciceley  replied  to  both  queries  by  a  dazed  nod.  For 
a  few  moments  she  was  literally  without  power  to 
move.  Her  nightmare  of  unreality  was  beginning  to 
creep  in  from  a  new  quarter.  Was  she  never  again  to 
feel  natural,  or  had  something  at  the  very  foundation 
of  her  intelligence  gone  wrong?  Somewhere  she  had 
read  that  a  too-poignant  mental  strain  produced 
phenomena  called  hallucinations.  One  saw  and  heard 
things  that  were  not  there.  Surely  it  could  be  only 
incipient  insanity  that  evoked  what  had  seemed  to 
be  Julia's  recent  remarks.  There  was  something  said 
about  Henry's  nose.  Desperately  the  little  widow 
again  looked  at  the  portrait.  There  was  the  profaned 
member,  Praxitelean  in  symmetry. 

She  drew  in  a  breath  of  relief,  throwing  at  the  same 
time  a  glance  of  indignation  toward  Julia,  who  chanced 
to  be  at  that  moment  calmly  removing  her  gloves. 

Ciceley  went  back  to  the  straight  nose-bridge, 
clinging  as  to  a  life-saving  spar.  She  whispered  aloud 
to  it  her  belief,  her  undying  loyalty.  Every  one  knew 
that  Henry  was  beautiful !  And  yet  —  and  yet — 
what  was  this  hideous  clamor  of  reason,  this  stripping 
of  memory  that  now  shrieked  to  her,  "Each  of  your 
husband's  many  photographs,  and  this  portrait  as 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  175 

well,  were  most  carefully  posed  to  secure  the  one 
straight  line  of  his  crooked  nose,  and  you  know  it"  ? 

Until  this  dreadful  moment,  her  memory  of  the 
distortion  had  been  as  utterly  buried  as  some  trivial 
incident  of  her  personal  infancy.  She  would  have 
sworn  on  many  bibles  that  Henry's  nose  had  been  a 
model  of  its  kind.  Not  only  pride  and  deep  sentiment 
were  affronted.  There  was  a  tang,  as  of  ridicule, 
that  poisoned  her  very  soul. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  now  questioned  Julia.  "Is 
there  some  housekeeping  you  must  attend  to,  before 
we  can  have  our  talk  ?  If  so,  just  forget  me  till  it  is 
over.  I'm  utterly  'comfy'  here." 

She  looked  it.  Two  perfectly  shod  feet  were  crossed 
far  in  front  of  her.  With  little  luxurious,  nestling 
movements  she  was  adjusting  her  slim  figure  to  the 
responsive  chair.  On  her  bright  face  was  a  smile 
of  unmistakable  content. 

"N-n-no,"  stammered  Ciceley,  feeling  more  than 
ever  that  she  had  been  the  sport  of  a  sinister  delusion. 
"There  is  nothing  to  do  just  yet." 

"Good!"  beamed  the  visitor.  "Then  hurry  and 
pull  up  your  little  rocking-chair.  You  see  I  remember 
it,  too !  I  want  you  quite  close,  —  close  enough  to 
lean  out  and  touch  you.  And  what  do  you  say  to 
taking  off  that  barbed-wire  hat?  It  has  nearly  put 
out  one  of  my  eyes  already." 

Peace  and  good  will  chimed  silver  in  her  voice. 

Ciceley,  advancing  like  an  automaton,  obeyed  all 
behests  as  one  under  hypnosis. 

"We  are  really  together  at  last,"  approved  Julia 
as  the  other  took  her  seat.  "Here  goes  my  hat,  too." 


176  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

With  quick,  deft  movements  she  untied  her  veil, 
extracted  two  jewelled  hatpins,  thrust  them  back  at 
random  into  the  hollow  shell,  and  then  tossed  the 
dainty  entanglement  out  across  Ciceley's  shoulder  to 
the  dining  room  table. 

"Now,  little  Sis!"  With  the  initiatory  words  she 
bent  forward,  taking  the  small  brown  hands  in  her 
own.  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  everything  about  your 
self,  what  you've  been  doing  all  these  years,  what  are 
your  plans  for  the  future.  How  this  funny  adventure 
we  call  life  looks  to  you  from  our  present  viewpoint 
of  middle-aged  perspective,  —  well,  in  fact,  every 
thing!" 

The  gray  eyes  were  kind,  but  compelling.  Ciceley 
made  no  attempt  just  yet  to  meet  them.  After  a 
moment  of  embarrassed  hesitation,  in  which  her  hands 
had  been  slowly  withdrawn,  she  replied,  "There's 
so  little  to  tell,  Jule.  The  girls  — " 

"  Girls  !"  broke  in  Julia.     "They  can  come  later,  - 
in  fact  they  are  coming.     This  is  our  one  little  talk 
enlre  nous.     I'm  not  to  be  thrown  off  the  track  by  your 
girls!" 

"But,"  faltered  Ciceley,  "there  doesn't  seem  to 
be  any  me  apart  from  them." 

"That's  where  you  make  your  mistake.  There  is. 
Lots  more  than  ever  before.  Why,  don't  you  realize, 
Ciceley  Taliaferro,  that  with  very  little  effort  you 
could  be  prettier  and  more  attractive  than  you've 
ever  been?" 

The  dark,  startled  eyes,  now  uplifted,  shrank  with  a 
look  of  pain.  For  an  instant  it  seemed  as  if  Julia 
mocked  her.  Then  with  an  effort  she  drew  herself 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  177 

well  up,  and  said  a  little  primly,  "You  must  remember, 
Jule,  that  having  two  daughters  nearly  grown  is  a 
very  different  thing  from  having  one  boy.  It  is  all 
very  well  for  you  to  wear  beautiful  dresses  and  look 
so  young,  but  what  would  people  think  of  me,  if  after 
all  this  time  I  should  begin  to  fix  up,  and  try  to  be 
pretty?" 

"What  do  they  think  of  you  now?"  questioned 
Julia,  with  disconcerting  abruptness.  As  the  other 
gasped,  she  thrust  in  more  deeply,  "What  do  your  girls 
think?" 

Now  the  brown  head  went  down.  In  the  big  room 
there  was  silence. 

"Sis,  little  Sis,"  whispered  Julia,  "don't  think  I 
want  to  hurt  you.  The  wounds  of  a  friend  —  I've 
known  and  loved  you  so  long."  The  charming  voice 
stopped  suddenly,  but  its  echoes  thrilled. 

"Even  though  Wick  was  a  boy,  I  had  problems. 
There  were  things  that  the  big,  outside  world  had  to 
teach  me.  Won't  you  tell  me  yours?" 

But  Ciceley  remained  wordless.  Even  to  this  close 
friend  she  could  not  admit  her  need. 

"Old  age  has  gone  out  of  fashion,"  the  other  went 
on  in  a  lighter  tone.  "Nobody  needs  to  look  old  or 
to  feel  old  until  well  after  fifty,  and  by  that  time  other 
interests  have  come.  It  is  good  for  one's  growing 
children  to  keep  up  with  things.  There's  so  much  to 
do  for  them,  so  many  fine,  tactful  ways  of  helping,  but 
it  can  be  done  only  by  remaining  at  their  side,  and  not 
slumping  back  helplessly  into  the  slough  of  a  former 
generation.  Don't  you  see  this  for  yourself,  dear?" 

Ciceley   shook   her  head.     From   a   low,   choking 


178  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

murmur,  the  listener  believed  she  caught  the  phrase 
"too  late." 

"  There's  nothing  that's  ever  too  late  !"  pronounced 
Julia.  "Nothing,  that  is,  but  actually  being  dead. 
It  is  the  one  finality,  and  —  it  should  be.  You  are 
not  out  of  your  thirties  yet,  Ciceley.  That  sounds  a 
mere  infant  to  me.  Your  hair  hasn't  a  single  white 
thread,  and  your  cheek  is  as  smooth  as  a  rose.  You 
are  lovely,  quite  lovely  —  if  only  -  This  time  the 
shake  of  the  head  had  more  vigor.  Noting  it,  Julia 
smiled. 

"Surely,"  she  urged,  and  now  partially  to  voice  her 
own  thoughts,  "at  your  age,  before  forty,  you  cannot 
have  persuaded  youself  that  no  personal  joy  is  left ! 
Every  one  dreams.  Dreams  are  the  ichor  of  being. 
I  remember  once  a  brilliant  young  thinker  and  student 
saying  to  me,  '  The  chlorophyll  of  the  soul  is  anticipa 
tion.  Its  sun  is  hope.  Without  them,  the  spirit 
dies.'  If  you  don't  know  what  chlorophyll  is,  —  I 
didn't,  of  course,  —  I  will  tell  you.  It  is  that  marvel 
lous  green  of  all  living  plants  that  turns  the  sun's  rays 
into  energy.  It  might  almost  be  used  as  a  term  for 
'life.'  Now  you  are  not  dead.  There  must  be  some 
thing  hidden  away,  some  dream  of  happiness  that 
you  take  out  when  no  one  is  looking.  Yes,  I  can  feel 
that  there  is.  Your  face  shows  it.  Tell  me  about  it, 
dear,  tell  me.  The  telling  will  help." 

The  tender  low  voice  had  betrayed  no  faltering,  but 
at  Ciceley's  slow,  upraised  look,  one  of  the  ringed 
hands  gripped  hard  the  arm  of  the  Colonel's  chair. 

"Yes,  Julie  dear,  there  is  something,"  Ciceley 
whispered.  "  I  am  not  ashamed  —  only  —  only  — " 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  179 

"Well  —  you  queer  little  soul,  well,  only  — ?" 

"It  would  sound  so  crude,  so  indelicate,  to  tell." 

"Even  to  me,  your  big  sister?" 

"Well,  then,"  cried  Ciceley,  spurred  to  a  sudden 
courage.  "Maybe  I  can,  to  you.  It's  grand 
children!" 

For  once  Julia  Preston's  control  fled  in  panic. 
"Grandchildren!"  she  echoed.  After  a  struggle  for 
breath,  in  a  louder  voice,  "Grandchildren!"  Then 
she  collapsed.  Prone  in  the  chair  she  began  to  laugh 
hysterically,  as  though  she  could  never  stop. 

"I  didn't  intend  being  funny,"  suggested  the  other. 

"Forgive  me,  my  dear.  I'm  utterly  disgusting," 
gasped  Julia,  as  she  fumbled  about  for  her  handker 
chief.  "I  just  couldn't  help  —  it  was  so  unexpected." 

"What  did  you  think,  then?"  probed  the  indignant 
Ciceley,  conserving  her  new  role  of  mentor.  "Have 
you  never,  yourself,  dreamed  of  having  them?" 

This  was  the  carrying  of  war  into  Africa. 

"Have  I?  Not  dreamed,  merely.  I  am  deter 
mined  I  shall !"  home-thrust  Julia,  rallying  her  bright 
cohorts  of  defence.  "That's  one  thing  I've  brought 
Wick  back  here  for.  You  know  how  I've  always  loved 
children.  I  wish  I  had  had  six.  I  adore  them  from 
the  moment  they  enter  this  world,  blind  as  young 
kittens,  their  pink  fists  curled  as  if  they  realized  what 
a  fight  was  on.  I  revel  in  the  smell  of  the  fuzzy 
flannel  bunches.  Violet  powder  —  paregoric  —  cat 
nip  —  even  asafetida  is  sweet  when  it  emanates  from 
them  !  I'd  rather  kiss  that  velvet  hollow  at  the  back 
of  a  baby's  neck  than  win  the  Derby.  But,  all  the 
same,  - 


180  THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 

Here  she  leaned  back  to  regard  more  at  leisure  her 
now  half -subdued  and  wholly-approving  listener. 
The  gray  eyes  sparkled  mischief.  ''Why  hurry  on 
what  is  sure?  A  woman  can  have  grandchildren 
when  she  can't  have  anything  else." 

"But  —  but—  '  fended  Ciceley,  blinking  before 
the  new  flash. 

Julia's  laugh  checked  her.  "Suppose,  just  for 
argument,  we  look  to  the  future.  We  are  conspira 
tors.  All  our  dark  plots  and  our  secrecies  bend  toward 
making  us  grandmammas." 

Again  came  the  pause,  into  which  Ciceley,  after 
a  feeble  resistance,  sent  a  small  "yes." 

"Well,  in  the  meantime,  as  an  intelligent  prepara 
tion  for  welcoming  them,  are  we  to  sit  still,  rusting,  let 
ting  our  sympathies  as  well  as  our  muscles  grow  stiff  ? 
Shall  we  choose  to  appear  to  the  newcomers  as  a  mere 
inert  mass  of  wrinkles,  surmounted  by  gold-rimmed 
specs,  with  perhaps  the  allurements  of  biscuit  and 
tea-cakes  suspended  from  our  feeble  anatomies  in  a 
black  bag?  That's  the  conventional  picture  I'll 
admit,  —  Grandma  in  spectacles  near  a  table,  an  open 
Bible,  a  sprig  of  rosemary,  and  a  window  !  The  light 
of  a  better  world  touches  already,  with  its  sacred  light, 
Grandma's  white  hairs.  Pathetic,  now,  isn't  it ! 
Rot !  sentimental  idiocy  !  pure  laziness !  One  should 
keep  living  as  long  as  they  are  here  !  And  the  less  one 
is  tread  down  by  hungry  generations,  the  more  respect 
those  generations  have  for  you.  As  for  myself," 
vaunted  Julia,  "I  warn  you  right  now  that  I  expect  to 
play  tennis  with  my  grandson,  and  beat  him,  and  to 
learn  all  the  new  dances  with  my  granddaughter!" 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  181 

She  threw  back  her  spirited  head  in  defiance  to 
meet  the  horrified  objections  Ciceley  was  sure  to  give. 
But  Ciceley  was  not  even  listening,  —  at  least  not 
to  her.  One  hand  was  now  raised,  claiming  silence. 
The  brown  eyes  turned  away  toward  the  front  of  the 
house ;  her  face  held  a  brightness  that  Julia  had  not 
seen  before.  But  behind  the  swift  radiance  a  cloud 
of  apprehension  passed. 

"There  !  I  was  certain  —  the  stirrup  latch.  It  is 
the  girls." 

Julia  sprang  to  her  feet  with  the  stab  of  a  sudden 
impatience.  "  Is  Sis  hopeless,  after  all  ?  "  she  thought. 
Then  as  a  second  inner  reflection,  "I  haven't  had  the 
chance  to  say  a  single  word  for  Jim." 

"Shall  we  go  to  the  door  and  meet  them?"  she 
suggested,  knowing  it  to  be  Ciceley's  desire. 

"Yes.  Will  you?  We'll  surprise  them  like  we  did 
Mammy."  Already  she  was  up  and  at  the  dining- 
room  door. 

"Not  exactly  as  we  did  old  Mammy,"  said  the  other 
to  herself  a  little  grimly,  and  followed,  wondering 
what  new  impressions  were  in  store. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

THE  GIRLS 

FROM  the  front  door,  as  the  two  friends  emerged, 
the  girls  were  at  first  invisible.  Ciceley  reached  out 
and  caught  her  cousin's  hand.  Her  own  was  trem 
bling.  Her  whole  figure  had  grown  tense,  thrilled  with 
expectancy.  No  honeymoon  bride  ever  watched  with 
more  eagerness  for  her  first  glimpse  of  a  returning 
mate. 

From  around  the  fringed  edges  of  a  great  pampas 
cluster,  halfway  along  the  curved  drive,  the  two  slim 
figures  showed.  Julia's  quick  glance,  seizing  them, 
touched  the  pink  face  of  little  Sylvia,  and  then 
flashed  in  an  instant  to  Lucille.  There  her  gaze  hung 
fixed  and  incredulous. 

She  had  been  well-prepared  for  prettiness,  even 
to  an  unusual  degree.  Jim's  muttered  objurgation, 
"  Pretty  is  as  pretty  does,"  told  her  more  than  any 
careless  praise.  But  at  first  sight  of  Lucille's  flawless 
loveliness,  her  heart  seemed  to  stop.  "There's  not 
an  acknowledged  beauty  to  compare  with  her," 
was  the  traveler's  astonished  decree.  Close  on  the 
heels  of  it  came  the  thought,  "Poor  little  Sis!" 

Lucille,  glancing  up,  met  the  appraising  eyes 
182 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  183 

fairly.  The  little  one,  seeing  a  visitor,  dimpled  and 
flushed,  nestling  close,  like  a  child,  to  the  stronger 
arm. 

After  one  long  grave  look,  Lucille  continued  to 
move  forward,  tall,  slender,  deliberate,  with  no  more 
self-consciousness  than  a  flower.  Her  rhythm  did 
not  alter  by  a  breath.  Julia  instinctively  thought 
of  tall  lilies,  of  cliffs  rendered  white  in  the  moon,  of 
poised,  jewelled  coronets.  " Heavens!"  she  mur 
mured,  half-audibly,  "surely  I'm  dreaming.  No 
living  girl  can  be  as  perfect  as  this.  What  a  beauty ! " 

Ciceley  had  watched  Julia  intently.  Now  a  low 
cry,  instinct  with  triumph,  broke  from  her  lips.  Here 
in  the  flesh  was  her  warrant,  here  her  bright  refuta 
tion  against  an  absurd  idolatry.  Who  would  not 
idolize  such  beings?  And  Julia  had  keen  eyes  to 
see. 

Spurred  by  excitement,  the  mother  ran  forward. 
At  the  top  of  the  steps  she  bent  down,  curving  low, 
her  impatience  silently  urging  the  approaching  figures 
to  haste.  Lucille,  though  apparently  oblivious  of 
her  mother,  noticeably  slackened  her  speed.  Her 
head  was  held  high,  the  eyes,  under  drooping  white 
lids,  were  cast  down.  Sylvia,  clinging  and  fluttering 
at  her  side,  might  not  have  been  in  existence. 

After  a  moment  of  quivering  expectation,  Ciceley 
stood  up.  Her  radiant  expression  sobered.  De 
spite  the  wide  space  all  about  them,  the  sky  overhead, 
the  long  pillared  cloisters  of  "gallery"  stretching  to 
right  and  left,  a  swift  circling  eddy,  as  it  were,  of 
more  highly  charged  atmosphere,  —  an  influence  at 
once  sinister  and  compelling,  —  swept  round  the 


184  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

focussing  group,  and  enclosed  it  in  its  own  definite 
dimension. 

Rasped  by  the  fret  of  it,  Sylvia,  breaking  away 
from  her  sister,  ran  like  a  fawn  up  the  steps. 
Ciceley's  arms  were  ready.  After  an  instantaneous 
but  passionate  embrace,  she  thrust  the  small  figure 
backward  toward  her  cousin  with  the  words,  "This 
is  my  little  one,  Sylvia." 

Julia  accepted  an  outstretched,  small  hand  almost 
gravely.  "It  is  Ciceley  herself,"  thought  the  woman. 
"It  is  the  core  of  the  mother's  heart." 

Before  she  could  find  words  to  speak,  Lucille,  still 
calm,  still  reserved,  stood  in  some  way  just  beside 
them.  Julia's  eyes  turned  to  her.  Neither  extended 
a  hand,  and  the  look  in  the  two  pairs  of  eyes  held 
so  long  that  Ciceley,  becoming  embarrassed,  started 
an  aimless  chattering. 

"Don't  you  know  yet  who  it  is,  girls?  Haven't 
you  guessed?  Why  —  just  try  to  think.  Lucille, 
you  surely  remember!" 

"I'm  sorry,"  replied  the  tall  girl,  using  her  voice 
of  water  that  rippled  below  thin  ice,  "I  am  waiting, 
you  see." 

The  words  were  courteous,  her  manner  that  of  a 
gracious  young  empress.  Yet  she  had  managed  to 
infuse  into  both  something  of  stinging  rebuke.  A 
swift,  scornful  glance  at  her  mother,  lashing  at  once 
the  whole  figure,  made  every  stain,  every  snag  in 
the  shabby  old  garments  dart  forth  a  clamoring  head. 

Julia's  mouth  tightened.  "I  am  your  cousin, 
Julia  Preston,"  stated  she.  Ice  clinked  here,  too. 
"Your  mother  and  I,  in  our  girlhood,  were  like  sisters. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  185 

I've  been  living  abroad  for  so  long  it  is  only  to 
be  expected  that  her  children  should  not  remember 
me." 

"  Ah !  Now  I  recall  you  quite  clearly,"  vouchsafed 
Lucille.  ''Mother,  and  Uncle  Jim  too,  have  spoken 
of  you  often." 

Her  smile  had  the  chill  of  perfection;  and  the 
hand  now  conventionally  stretched  forth  might  have 
served  as  a  model  in  the  show-window  of  a  manicure 
establishment. 

Julia  just  touched  the  white  fingers.  Here  was 
the  problem,  indeed ;  here  gentle  Ciceley's  crucible. 
Through  the  sense  of  hostility  that  quickened  in 
Julia's  veins  ran  a  long  thrill  of  exultation.  Dearly 
she  loved  a  fight,  and  here  before  her  stood  a  keen 
opponent,  —  only  a  girl  indeed,  but,  as  the  other 
judged,  with  equipment  to  test  all  her  own  mature 
powers.  It  seemed  almost  too  good  to  be  true  that 
on  the  sleepy  old  Hill  had  been  forged  such  a  blade. 
Reason  and  justice  and  defence  of  a  weaker  matched 
against  panoplied  selfishness !  Her  high  spirit  loved 
the  tall  girl  for  her  very  defiance.  She  yearned  for 
the  combat. 

"/  remember  you  too,  Cousin  Julia,"  the  little  one 
dimpled.  At  the  words  she  crept  close,  quite  between 
Lucille  and  Julia,  and  sent  up  a  shy,  long-lashed  look. 
''You  gave  me  the  prettiest  doll  I  ever  had.  She's 
named  Lady  Julia.  I've  got  her  yet.  Where's 
Wick?" 

"Bless  your  brown  eyes!"  cried  out  Julia.  "So 
you  remember  Wick,  too?" 

Sylvia  nodded,  her  face  more  than  ever  a  rose. 


186  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"You  will  be  stopping  for  lunch,  Cousin  Julia?" 
the  other  girl's  clear  voice  enquired. 

"If  your  mother  will  do  me  the  honor." 

"Why,  of  course  you  will  stay,"  fluttered  Ciceley. 
"The  idea  of  Lucille's  asking!" 

Julia  could  not  deny  herself  a  swift,  almost  mali 
cious  look.  Lucille,  as  though  no  one  had  spoken, 
had  begun  calmly  untying  her  bonnet  strings.  Her 
indifferent  face  did  not  change. 

"Nevertheless,"  chuckled  the  inner  Julia,  "she 
does  not  miss  a  trick." 

As  the  four  entered  the  big,  pleasant  dining  room, 
constraint  all  at  once  seemed  to  vanish.  Julia  had 
set  herself  the  task  of  subjugation.  All  of  her  mar 
vellous  best  was  consciously  put  forth.  Soon  Ciceley 
and  Sylvia  were  laughing  until  it  was  hard  to  tell 
one  happy  face  from  the  other.  Lucille,  instinc 
tively  wary,  kept  watch,  but  there  were  moments 
when  even  her  defences  went  down. 

Julia's  delight  in  the  girl  and  her  angry  impatience 
at  the  way  Ciceley  was  ignored  kept  her  own  senses 
keyed.  Under  her  breath  she  found  herself  hurling 
anathemas  into  which,  with  disconcerting  frequency, 
fragments  of  panegyric  cut.  "You  iceberg!  Regan 
and  Goneril  fused  into  rose-colored  flint!"  were 
shattered  to  atoms  with  the  intruding  thought,  — 
"But  look  at  the  line  of  her  chin  as  it  melts  to  the 
throat!" 

Little  by  little  her  restless  intelligence  ferreted  out 
chinks  in  the  girl's  crystal  armor.  In  one  interval 
of  comparative  lack  of  restraint,  Lucille  admitted 
her  fondness  for  the  reading  of  novels. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  187 

"She  always  is  reading  —  even  in  bed,"  supple 
mented  the  little  one,  in  a  tone  indicating  her  childish 
resentment  against  the  isolating  practice. 

"What  else  is  there  to  do?"  parried  Lucille. 

Her  eyes,  discontented  and  questioning,  went 
straight  to  Julia.  That  astute  person,  after  a  light 
ning  calculation  of  probable  effect,  permitted  herself 
a  quick  nod  of  sympathy.  "I  know,"  she  just 
breathed.  Now,  again  sparkling,  she  rapidly  men 
tioned  the  titles  of  a  few  recent  books  which  Lucille 
would  have  been  apt  to  have  read.  The  lure  was 
successful.  Lucille,  now  almost  vivacious,  men 
tioned  the  names  of  the  characters.  Julia  apparently 
was  on  terms  of  the  closest  intimacy  with  them  all. 
She  began  to  talk  of  them,  criticising,  commenting, 
laughing,  as  though  they  were  beings  of  flesh,  who 
might,  at  a  wave  of  her  magical  wand,  spring  into  sight. 

Even  the  two  other  listeners,  neither  of  whom 
ever  read,  found  themselves  as  eager  as  if  personal 
acquaintances  were  involved.  From  her  gay  dis 
course  upon  printed  heroes,  Julia  now  veered,  with 
the  wrist  of  a  master  of  fencing,  into  the  more  inti 
mate  topic  of  living  ones.  Of  course  such  dear  girls 
had  admirers  —  dozens  of  them,  no  doubt !  She 
wanted  to  hear  all  about  them.  Nothing  on  earth 
was  quite  so  interesting.  It  was  the  one  disappoint 
ment  of  her  life  that  Wick  had  no  sweetheart.  And 
with  the  girls,  was  there  by  chance,  —  with  either, 
—  an  already  definite,  preferred  Lothario  ? 

Sylvia,  all  blushes  and  radiant  confusion,  cried 
out  denial.  "They  had  their  boy  friends,"  she  con 
fessed.  "All  the  girls  had.  Some  of  them,  the 


i88  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

boys,"  she  paused  to  explain,  "had  been  awfully 
nice,  bringing  them  candy  and  music,  and  taking 
them  about  to  parties.  But  as  for  there  being  a 
special  one  —  A  violent  shake  of  brown  curls 
ended  her  statement. 

Ciceley  drank  in  every  syllable.  Next  to  the  fact 
of  their  beauty,  the  well-known  "popularity"  of 
her  daughters  was  Ciceley's  greatest  pride.  All 
pretty  girls  should  have  beaux. 

Julia  now  turned  with  a  deepening  interest  to  the 
silent  elder  girl.  Lucille  had  neither  flushed  nor 
smiled. 

"We  have  to  accept  such  attentions,"  she  answered, 
"simply  because  there's  no  choice.  The  men  down 
here  are  cut  from  a  single  coarse  pattern.  They 
never  have  seen,  read,  or  thought  anything  worth 
while  in  their  lives.  Their  one  thought  of  a  girl  is  a 
silly  creature,  open-mouthed  as  a  young  mocking 
bird  for  their  compliments.  When  we  do  get  a 
glimpse  of  real  men,"  here  a  swift  frown  of  resent 
ment  darkened,  "it  only  shows  up  the  stupidity  of 
our  usual  crowd.  I  am  sick  of  it  all !"  she  cried  out 
with  a  sudden  and  most  unexpected  vehemence.  "I 
wish  —  oh,  I  wish  — 

She  caught  herself  back.  Julia  could  see  the 
tightening  of  reins.  The  long  arms  had  been  par 
tially  uplifted,  giving  the  look  of  wings.  Now  they 
fell  back.  "But  what  is  the  use  of  wishing,"  came 
in  a  low,  muttering  voice  so  withheld  that  none  but 
the  visitor  heard  it. 

"Don't  be  too  sure  there's  no  use,"  whispered  Julia 
as  guardedly.  Leaving  the  molecule  of  yeast  to 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  189 

ferment,  she  passed  on,  apparently  in  unthinking 
caprice,  to  a  brilliant  recital  of  her  experiences  in 
England.  She  had  visited  at  many  of  the  country 
places  so  well  known  that  their  names  had  a  part  in 
novels.  Titles  and  personages  fell  as  in  a  shower  of 
gems  from  her  mouth.  Lucille  again  listened  breath 
lessly.  Now  Julia  told  them  of  her  presentation  at 
the  English  court. 

"And  speaking  of  courts/'  she  broke  in,  addressing 
herself  directly  to  Ciceley,  "do  you  realize,  Madame 
Bering,  that  one  of  your  faithful  adorers  is  quite  a 
persona  grata  at  Buckingham  Palace?" 

"Mine!  What  do  you  mean?"  stammered 
Ciceley. 

"As  usual,  just  what  I  say.  This  time  I  can  give 
it  a  name.  Mark  Stanwood." 

"Mark  Stanwood!"  echoed  Ciceley,  beginning  to 
dimple  and  smile.  "That  little  boy.  I  had  for 
gotten  the  dear  child  was  alive." 

"Not  much  'dear  child'  about  the  Honorable  Mark 
now,"  bantered  Julia.  "He's  a  dashing  young 
guardsman,  frightfully  good-looking  and  nearly  as 
tall  as  Jim,  —  that  is,"  she  corrected  hastily,  "as  I 
remember  Jim." 

"Uncle  Jim's  awfully  fat  now,"  affirmed  little 
Sylvia,  but  fortunately  no  one  heeded  her.  Lucille's 
gray  eyes  were  twin  stars. 

"After  Mark's  father  died  here,"  continued  the 
speaker,  "and  his  mother  decided  to  return  for  good  to 
England,  two  cousins  of  theirs  were  killed  in  South 
Africa.  This  brought  Mark  a  pot  of  money.  Besides, 
it  left  only  one  life  between  him  and  the  title." 


190  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Would  you  mind  telling  us,"  came  in  an  awe- 
stricken  voice  from  Lucille,  "what  title?" 

"Sir  Mark  Stanwood  of  Stanwood  Manor,"  pro 
nounced  Julia  grandiloquently.  "Of  course,"  she 
said  lightly  in  afterthought,  "the  title's  not  much. 
Only  a  baronetcy."  One  would  have  thought  from 
her  gesture  that  baronetcies  buzzed  about  like  mos 
quitoes.  "But  the  Manor  is  a  show  place,  and  the 
income  quite  dazzling.  There's  many  an  English 
girl  wasting  her  time  in  the  attempt  to  be  made  Lady 
Stanwood." 

"But,  Cousin  Julia,"  asked  Sylvia,  "what  did  you 
mean  about  his  being  an  adorer  of  mother's?  Why, 
mother : — 

"As  a  boy  he  was  crazy  about  her,"  came  the 
quick  statement.  "He  used  to  follow  her  about  like 
a  dog.  He  admitted  to  me,  over  there,  that  when  he 
heard  she  had  married  your  father,  he  very  nearly 
threw  himself  into  the  Thames.  He's  cursed  with 
fidelity,  poor  man  !  I  honestly  believe  that  it's  only  to 
see  his  old  love,  that  he's  on  his  way  to  America  now." 

"On  his  way  now!"  echoed  Ciceley  in  horror. 

"Why,    yes.     Didn't    I    mention    it?    When    he 

heard  Wick  and  I  were  coming,  and  that  you  were 

still  unmarried  —      Well,  the  fact  is,  he  asked  me  to 

-  er  —  well,  to  speak  of  him   to  you  —  make  the 

path  clear,  as  it  were." 

"I  wish,  Jule,"  now  said  the  beet-colored  Ciceley, 
with  a  pathetic  attempt  at  dignity,  "that  you 
wouldn't  joke  about  such  absurdities,  especially 
before  the  girls.  It  makes  me  feel  —  Why,  Mark 
is  a  child  to  me." 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  191 

"But,  dear,  I  am  not  in  the  least  joking,"  pro 
tested  the  other,  with  wide-opened,  innocent  eyes. 
"I'm  utterly  serious,  and  so  is  poor  Mark.  He's  only 
a  few  years  your  junior,  and,  besides,  it's  quite  a 
fad  now  among  Englishmen  to  marry  their  grand 
mothers."  At  the  last  word  she  gave  a  small, 
meaning  grimace. 

"Excuse  me,"  gasped  Ciceley,  routed  with 
slaughter,  "I  must  see  about  lunch  —  -  I'll  —  •  I  won't 
be  a  minute  -  As  she  fled,  the  tormenter  leaned 
back.  On  her  face  was  a  deep  satisfaction. 

Now  Lucille  rose.  She  betrayed  not  a  hint  of 
disturbance.  Each  supple  movement  flowed  into 
the  next  with  a  quiet  and  measured  grace.  "You'll 
excuse  me  too,  Cousin  Julia?"  she  suggested  sweetly. 
"I'd  like  to  hang  up  this  bonnet  and  brush  my  hair 
before  luncheon." 

Julia  bowed  graciously.  The  smile  on  her  face, 
as  it  lifted,  was  as  impersonally  correct  as  Lucille's 
own.  They  might  have  been  two  ladies  in  waiting, 
just  brushing  each  other  in  the  royal  antechamber. 

For  Julia,  at  least,  the  whole  situation  was  gilded 
by  humor.  Lucille,  it  was  evident,  had  no  such 
redress.  All  that  pertained  to  herself  became,  by 
that  fact,  of  deep  moment,  centering  at  once  her 
whole  conscious  universe. 

Julia  knew  so  much  by  instinct.  Watching  the 
poise  of  the  head,  the  light,  swinging  carelessness  of 
her  slim  figure  as  she  walked  down  the  room,  all  of 
the  elder  woman's  fine  sympathy  rushed  in  to  shame 
her,  to  tell  her  anew  how  unequal  the  contest. 

"And  yet,"  cried  the  knight  errant  in  Julia,  "even 


i92  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

a  thoroughbred  is  nobler  for  taming.  It  is  not 
merely  for  Ciceley,  but  for  the  good  of  this  lovely, 
defiant  thing  too,  that  a  whip  and  the  spurs  must 
be  used." 

Sylvia,  during  the  skirmish  which  ended  in  two 
separate  flights,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  had 
remained  seated.  Her  eyes,  opened  wide  and  ob 
viously  imploring,  had  followed  her  mother,  blinking 
with  sudden  dismay  as  the  door  closed.  Now,  at 
a  different  angle,  they  vainly  adhered  to  Lucille. 
When  that  source  of  defence  and  initiative  was 
likewise  removed,  the  little  one,  shrinking  as  if  she 
had  been  a  small,  cornered  rabbit,  brought  her  eyes 
round  to  her  companion. 

Julia  was  ready  for  her. 

"Come  to  me  zw-stantly,  Sylvia." 

The  child,  although  palpitant,  sped. 

"Do  you  know,  you  dear  kitten,  what  all  along  I've 
been  dying  to  do?" 

"No,"  faltered  Sylvia. 

"This!"  cried  out  Julia,  and  flung  both  arms 
tightly  around  her,  straining  her  close.  "You're  a 
lamb.  You're  a  darling,"  she  murmured.  "If  you 
had  been  my  little  girl,  I  know  I  should  have  eaten 
you  up  long  ago,  just  as  I  nibble  rose-leaves." 

"Oh  —  oh!"  blushed  and  twittered  the  small  one, 
nestling  down  nearer. 

"You're  just  a  pink  nosegay.  You  ought  to  be 
in  a  vase  now,  sitting  on  somebody's  table.  Sylvia, 
I  want  you  to  like  me  —  a  lot!  I  have  reasons!" 

"I  do  like  you  now  —  I  just  love  you,"  cried 
Sylvia,  and,  at  the  words,  turned  round  to  fling 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  193 

herself  once  and  for  all  into  idolatry.  Later  she 
ventured,  still  shyly,  "  Cousin  Julia." 

"Yes,  kitten." 

"Why  did  you  tease  mother  so  about  that  Mark 
man?  Didn't  you  see  she  was  afraid  Lucille  was 
going  to  make  fun  of  her?" 

"Was  she  now!"  marvelled  the  other,  hiding  her 
mischievous  eyes  in  brown  curls. 

"Yes,"  nodded  Sylvia  impressively. 

"Lucille's  got  a  few  things  to  learn,"  was  Julia's 
next  comment.  "And  the  first  is  that  her  mother  is 
still  a  young  and  pretty  woman." 

Sylvia  drew  back,  the  better  to  see  her  companion's 
face.  She  started  to  laugh,  thinking  the  words  a 
new  jest,  but  at  sight  of  the  earnestness  in  the  gray 
eyes  so  near,  sobered  instantly  into  a  puzzled  stare. 

"We  know  she's  pretty  and  sweet,"  decoyed  Julia. 
"Don't  we,  you  dear?" 

"Ye-e-s.  Were  you  and  mother  really  girls  to 
gether?" 

"Of  course.    Do  I  seem  all  that  older?" 

"You  !  I  was  thinking  of  mother." 

A  curious  light  came  into  Julia's  face,  then  as 
swiftly  as  Sylvia's  laugh  had  faded,  it  too  disappeared. 

"Get  down,"  she  commanded,  with  a  brusque 
affectation  of  anger,  "I  won't  have  so  stupid  a  child 
on  my  lap.  I  am  years  and  years  older  than  Ciceley, 
and  I  never  was,  or  will  be,  one  tenth  as  good-look 
ing." 

Though  Sylvia  apologized,  and  clung,  pleading  for 
forgiveness,  the  irate  one  took  her  by  both  arms, 
and  slid  her  down  bodily  to  the  hearth-rug.  Over 


194  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

her  she  stood,  menacing  fiercely.  "I'm  going  to 
find  your  mother,"  she  declared.  "Even  though  she 
doesn't  belong  in  the  cradle,  like  a  few  others  I 
could  mention,  she  at  least  has  a  little  sense."  She 
strode  off,  not  heeding  the  cries  of  apparent  distress 
that  arose  from  the  hearth,  nor  deigning  a  glance 
toward  the  giggling,  impenitent  culprit. 

Just  without  the  door,  she  laughed  softly.  "That 
will  do  you,  little  kitten,  for  a  first  inoculation  of 
common  sense,"  she  remarked.  Then  her  voice  rang 
out  clearly,  "Ciceley!  Oh,  Sis!  Where  are  you?" 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

JULIA  OUTLINES  A  CAMPAIGN 

SELDOM  had  luncheon  at  Little  Sunshine  proceeded 
with  such  brightness  and  laughter.  Seldom  had 
Henry  Bering's  portrait  fixed  its  glazed  eyes  on  so 
many  happy  faces.  Into  the  stagnant  waters  of  the 
usual,  a  fresh  and  revivifying  energy  had  been  thrown. 
1  Mammy  bore  dishes  in,  smiling;  and,  with  a 
broader  grin,  waddled  out  kitchenward  for  more. 
Over  and  over  again  Julia  asserted,  —  and  always 
where  Mammy  could  hear,  —  that  cooking  like  this 
made  all  of  the  royal  tables  of  Europe  seem  like  so 
many  horse-troughs  of  bran. 

After  the  meal,  the  four,  by  unanimous  impulse, 
moved  toward  the  long  front  "gallery",  where  now 
the  October  sun  heaped  up  great  stores  of  evanescent 
gold.  Julia  plunged  into  it,  holding  her  arms  wide, 
and  drawing  in  breaths  of  warm  radiance,  as  though 
it  had  been  wine. 

"They  don't  know  —  the  poor  things  over  there 
in  England  —  what  real  sunshine  can  be,"  she 
declared.  "For  days  at  a  time  you  can  trace 
where  the  sun  is  by  only  a  dull  sort  of  gleam,  just 
as  if  on  a  huge,  tarnished  pewter  dish  somebody 

195 


i96  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

had  begun  to  polish  a  single  spot,  and  turned  away 
in  disgust.  When,  once  in  a  fortnight  or  so  it  really 
does  shine,  it  is  less  an  event  than  an  emotion." 

Disdaining  the  suggestion  of  a  chair,  she  threw 
herself  down  to  the  steps,  where,  after  an  instant, 
the  others  laughingly  grouped  themselves.  It  was 
here  that  the  Colonel  and  Wick  found  them,  —  at 
least,  found  the  girls  and  their  mother,  —  for  even 
before  the  stirrup  latch  could  be  lifted,  Julia,  covertly 
on  watch,  had  heard  them  coming,  and  sped  down 
the  drive  like  a  girl. 

"Show  more  surprise,  Jim,"  she  ordered  breath 
lessly,  when  well  within  hearing.  "Open  your  eyes 
wide,  —  no,  wider  !  Your  mouth,  too  !  Remember 
you've  not  seen  me  for  ages !  Well,  if  there  isn't  old 
Rover,  —  a  new  incarnation,  of  course,  but,  to  all 
practical  purposes  —  Jim  I  Now  stand  still,  throw 
up  your  hands  and  say,  '  God  bless  my  soul ! '  You're 
making  a  mess  of  your  part.  The  first  question 
Ciceley  asked  me  was  whether  I  had  seen  you  first. 
I  had  to  —  evade !"  she  laughed  ringingly.  "There ! 
That's  much  better.  Now  pump  my  hands  up  and 
down  frantically,  as  you  used  to  do  the  Richmond 
Hill  church  organ.  Good,  couldn't  be  better !  That 
will  get  Ciceley  all  right ! " 

"After  this  painful  display  of  a  parent's  duplicity," 
murmured  Wick  in  a  mournful  aside  to  the  Colonel, 
"do  you  wonder  I'm  old  and  sedate  for  my  years?" 

"Oh,  go  climb  a  tree,  little  boy!"  grimaced  Julia. 
"This  is  a  grown-up  affair." 

The  three  chaffing  merrily,  with  Rover  displaying 
his  joy  by  the  performance  of  weird  canine 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  197 

gymnastics,  moved  toward  the  waiting  group  on  the 
steps.  Julia  felt  that  she  knew  the  appraisal  in 
Lucille's  calm  eyes  as  she  watched  Wick  approaching. 
Among  other  useful  attainments  Julia  had  learned 
how  to  see  everything  while  appearing  to  notice 
nothing.  She  waited,  with  intense  curiosity,  for 
the  expression  on  Wick's  face  when  he  should  get  his 
first  glimpse  of  Lucille. 

It  was  quite  as  anticipated,  —  a  swift  look  of  in 
credulous  wonder,  a  second,  more  searching  glance, 
a  low  exclamation,  the  lips  formed  to  a  sort  of  sound 
less  "Whew!"  and  then  forced  self-control  to  blot 
the  offence  of  staring.  And  also  she  saw,  and  was 
well  pleased  thereby,  that  after  Wick's  pleasant, 
conventional  greetings,  and  the  three  handshakes, 
impartially  bestowed,  it  was  at  the  side  of  little 
Sylvia  he  remained. 

Ciceley's  excited  phrases  and  questionings  were 
all  for  Jim,  with  Julia  as  objective.  "Just  look 
at  her,  Jim,"  she  repeated,  many  times  over.  "Isn't 
she  the  most  wonderful  thing !  I  feel  and  look  eighty 
beside  her!" 

The  steps  were  abandoned.  Verandah  rocking- 
chairs  were  drawn  into  a  convivial  ring.  After  a 
rather  short  interval,  Julia  stood  up,  declaring  that 
she  must  go  in  to  fetch  her  hat. 

"Your  hat !"  echoed  Ciceley,  while  Jim  contributed 
a  sound  of  protesting  dismay.  "You're  not  thinking 
of  going  this  soon!" 

Julia  assured  them  regretfully  that  going  was  the 
one  thing  she  was  of  necessity  driven  to  consider.  It 
was  a  frightfully  hard  thing  to  do,  she  averred,  but 


198  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

there  chanced  to  be  letters,  tiresome  letters,  some  of 
them  of  business  importance,  which  must  be  written 
in  time  to  catch  the  next  post. 

Her  manner  was  suave  and  convincing,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  she  was  assiduous  in  avoiding  the 
twinkle  of  her  son's  eyes.  These  two  knew  each 
other  appallingly  well. 

"But,  Mater,  -  '  he  now  cried  out,  forcing  her 
attention.  Then,  as  suddenly,  he  stopped. 

"There's  not  the  least  need  of  your  coming  along, 
Wick,"  she  flung  round  instantly.  Now  she  could 
look  at  him,  and  did  so,  in  roguish  satisfaction. 
Honors  were  easy  between  them.  "You  just  stay 
where  you  are.  That  is,"  she  added,  with  a  smile 
for  the  little  hostess,  "if  Ciceley  is  good  enough  to 
put  up  with  you." 

Before  Ciceley  could  speak,  a  low,  breathless 
"Please!"  came  from  Sylvia. 

Wick  flushed  like  a  schoolgirl.  "May  I  stay, 
Cousin  Ciceley?" 

At  her  cordial  assent,  and  further  to  voice  his 
felicity,  he  stated  with  emphasis,  "After  that,  don't 
you  know,  I  should  jolly  well  need  to  be  blasted  away  ! " 

Lucille  and  her  mother  were  already  smiling. 
Their  quick  deepening  of  amusement  might  well 
have  been  passed.  But  Sylvia,  emitting  one  choked 
gurgle  of  delight,  bent  herself  over,  rocking  with 
violence  to  and  fro,  in  her  effort  to  restrain  a  par 
oxysm  of  mirth.  It  was  useless;  the  laughter  rang 
out  like  the  chiming  of  elves  in  a  glade. 

Wick's  happy  flush  went  deeper.  Boyish  wrath  shot 
from  his  pleasant  gray  eyes,  and  his  head  went  high. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  199 

"Was  I  by  way  of  being  funny?"  he  questioned 
stiffly. 

"No!  Y-e-es.  Oh,  please  do  forgive  me!" 
tinkled  the  naughty  one.  "I  know  I  am  being 
most  dreadfully  rude.  It  was  'awfter',  and  'blawst' 
that  just  made  me  —  I  couldn't  help  —  Here 
the  bright  current,  striking  the  rocks  anew,  dashed 
into  rainbows  of  merriment. 

"Oh,"  said  the  boy,  now  joining  the  chorus,  "it 
was  only  my  English  accent.  I  don't  mind  that!" 

When  Julia  emerged,  veiled  and  hatted,  she  walked 
straight  to  Jim.  Wick  had  of  course  risen.  Ciceley 
was  standing  near.  The  Colonel,  noting  the  purpose 
ful  look  in  Julia's  face,  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair, 
and  then  he  too  rose. 

"Will  you  walk  down  to  the  car  with  me,  Jim?" 
asked  Julia.  "As  I  told  you-all,  one  of  my  letters 
concerns  business.  There  seems  to  be  a  bit  of  a 
tangle.  I  want  Jim's  advice." 

Ciceley's  upturned  face,  which  at  the  beginning  of 
the  little  speech  had  been  eager,  sobered  at  close 
of  it  into  chagrin.  She  had  only  been  waiting  a 
pause  to  suggest  that  she  too  should  walk  down  to 
the  car-line,  leaving  the  'young  folks'  to  themselves. 
Julia's  words  pushed  her  back  as  one  pushes  a  child. 

"Well,  I  do  hate  for  you  to  go,  Jule,"  she  now  said 
in  a  voice  plainly  touched  by  disappointment. 
"When  am  I  to  see  you  again?" 

"To-morrow,  of  course.  Can't  you  come  and 
have  luncheon?" 

Ciceley  shook  her  head.  The  girls  gave  simulta 
neous  glances  of  hope,  but  Julia  ignored  them. 


200  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Then  I  shall  come  out  here,"  she  decided  crisply. 
"And  Wick,"  she  turned  on  the  steps  to  send  back  a 
parting  injunction,  "be  sure  you  come  back  in  plenty 
of  time  to  change.  Remember  we're  dining  out. 
The  old  friends  in  town  have  begun  to  discover  us," 
she  explained  to  the  company  at  large.  "We  are 
going  to  the  Beldens'  this  evening." 

It  was  of  these  and  of  other  old  friends  that  she 
talked  lightly  during  their  progress  toward  the 
stirrup  latch.  Jim  made  no  attempt  at  reply.  His 
heart  and  his  mind  were  too  full  of  concerns  nearer 
home.  As  he  held  the  gate  open,  Julia,  pausing  an 
instant,  looked  back.  Lucille  had  disappeared. 
Wick  and  the  little  one  sat  with  their  chairs  very 
close.  Ciceley  alone  was  watching.  At  Julia's  gay 
wave,  she  responded  more  temperately,  then,  wheel 
ing  about,  entered  the  house.  The  stirrup  latch 
clicked  its  farewell.  Jim  swung  into  step  with  his 
companion.  Rover  shot  like  a  catapult  between 
them,  rushing  forward  as  though  to  hurl  himself 
over  the  edge  of  the  world,  only  to  spring  in  the  air, 
come  down  facing  them,  and  hurtle  back,  yelping 
his  rapture.  Jim  growled  out  "fool !"  at  which  rap 
ture  subsided.  Still  Julia  did  not  speak. 

Stealing  an  impatient  glance  down  at  her,  Jim  saw 
an  expression  that  baffled  him.  There  was  some 
thing  remote  and  withdrawn  in  its  brooding  serenity. 
Had  he  bent  to  her  eyes,  he  might  have  seen  deeper 
things,  —  the  stirring  of  tender  prophecies. 

He  kicked  at  a  mushroom,  ruthlessly  crushing  the 
pink-quilted  miracle.  Then  came  a  suggestive  cough, 
followed  by  loud  raspings  of  an  outraged  throat. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  201 

"Well !"  he  broke  out,  at  the  end  of  restraint. 

"Well?"  she  rejoined,  and  smiled  up  at  him.  Her 
dream  faded  slowly,  leaving  a  long  trail  of  star-dust. 

"You've  been  there,"  he  said.  "You  have  seen. 
What  do  you  make  of  the  situation  ?  Did  Ciceley  — 
Do  you  think  now  there's  a  chance  to  straighten 
things  out?" 

Julia  reached  through  the  fence,  and  broke  off  a 
twig  of  wax-myrtle.  The  lot  where  it  grew  was  the 
one  where  her  home,  as  a  girl,  had  once  stood.  She 
looked  at  the  small  clustered  berries,  pellets  of  lead, 
they  appeared,  caked  with  white  dust.  She  lifted 
the  spray  to  her  face,  sniffing  aromas. 

"Do  you  happen  to  have  a  good  surplus  amount 
in  the  bank?"  was  the  astounding  question  now 
shot  at  him. 

Jim's  loud  ejaculation  was,  this  time,  spontaneous. 
"I  don't  understand." 

"Few  people  do,  when  money  is  mentioned.  To 
make  it  more  clear,  —  how  much  are  you  willing  to 
spend?" 

"I  can't  see  where  spending  comes  in,"  he  ob 
jected,  gazing  into  her  radiant  face  with  a  frown. 
Her  words,  to  his  honest,  chivalrous  soul,  were  both 
flippant,  and  strangely  indelicate.  "  Ciceley 's  trouble 
goes  deeper  than  money.  If  it  didn't,"  he  said,  "she 
could  have  every  nickel  I've  got.  But  she  won't 
take  it." 

"Thanks  !  That's  quite  all  I  require.  And  you've 
got  it?" 

"Yes,"  growled  the  man.     "Worse  luck." 

"Oh,   you   idiot!"   laughed   Julia.     "As  if   there 


202  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

was  ever  a  situation  where  money  couldn't  help! 
Now  brace  yourself,  friend.  Are  you  willing  —  for 
Ciceley's  sake,  mind  you !  —  to  squander  within  the 
next  few  weeks,  well,  say  fifteen  hundred  dollars?" 

Jim  did  not  flinch.  "Twice  that,  and  then  some, 
if  only  I  could  know  what  you're  driving  at." 

"Prepare  for  the  stroke.  Here  it  is.  As  you 
remarked,  I  have  seen.  Not  only  seen,  but  unsus 
pected,  unless  by  that  white  witch,  Lucille,  I  have 
weighed,  probed,  and  measured  for  hours.  I've  got 
it  all  here."  With  the  words  she  tapped  lightly  the 
line  of  white  forehead  shadowed  by  her  jaunty  hat. 
"Better  still,  I've  a  plan.  It's  a  good  one.  It's 
bound  to  succeed,  if  you  help.  Can  I  count  on  you, 
Jim?  Are  you  game?" 

"I'm  resigned,"  muttered  Jim.  "That's  next 
best.  Pull  your  trigger." 

"You're  to  take  Ciceley's  girls  for  a  little  pleasure 
trip  to  New  York." 

"To  New  York!  A  pleasure  tri  -  Me!  With 
young  females  in  tow !  Holy  smoke !  To  New 
York!"  sputtered  Jim,  his  eyes  jutting  glassily. 

"You  should  start  pretty  soon,"  discoursed  Julia. 
"There's  no  time  to  waste.  Let's  see.  This  is  Tues 
day.  Thursday  night  would  be  fine.  I'll  make  it  my 
business  to  have  the  girls  packed.  Can  you  do  it?" 

"Thursday  night!  Jumping  Jehosephat!  Have 
you  lost  all  your  wits,  Jule,  or  just  having  fun  string 
ing  me  ?  Thursday  night,  and  already  it's  Tuesday." 

"If  you'd  realize,  dear  man,  that  you're  not  a 
defective  record  on  a  phonograph,"  Julia  suggested 
mildly,  "we'd  make  better  headway." 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  203 

"But  the  girls.     Have  they  said  they  would  go?" 
"Not  yet.     I  couldn't  very  well  tell  them  until  I 
was    sure    that    they    could.     They'll    know    it    to 
morrow." 

"Here,  hold  on  a  little,"  panted  the  man.  "I've 
got  to  get  breath.  Do  you  realize  — 

"I'm  not  wasting  time  on  realizing,"  she  struck  in. 
"My  part  is  more  active.  Is  there  any  procedure 
connected  with  oranges  why  you  can't  leave?" 

"No,"  answered  Jim,  after  a  brief,  sharp  struggle 
with  mendacity.  "There's  nothing  to  do  for  'em 
just  now  but  watch  'em  get  ripe.  I've  got  to  be  back 
for  the  crating,  though,"  he  added  with  hopefulness. 
"And  when  does  the  crating  begin?" 
"About  the  third  week  in  November." 
"November,"  mused  Julia.  "And  October  is  not 
more  than  half  over.  Good !  That  will  give  you  a 
full  three  weeks  in  New  York.  Now  please  listen 
carefully.  Thank  heaven,  I  see  a  bench  over  there 
under  a  juniper.  I'd  like  to  sit  down.  Never  mind 
whether  or  not  I  miss  my  car.  When  your  mouth 
stays  wide  open,  and  your  eyes  roll  like  marbles,  it 
gets  on  my  nerves.  Remember  I'm  not  advocating 
murder,  but  happiness,  —  your  happiness,  Jim,  as 
well  as  Ciceley's." 

"I  know  you  mean  well,  dear  old  Jule,"  he  con 
ceded,  taking  his  place  rather  heavily  beside  her. 
"But  how  in  the  thunder  is  anybody's  happiness 
going  to  be  helped  by  my  making  a  darned  fool  of 
myself,  hiking  off  to  a  place  where  I  don't  want  to 
go,  and  trailing  two  girls  that  probably  won't  want  to 
come?  Lucille  is  sore  on  me  now." 


204  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"At  the  first  hint  of  so  glorious  a  trip,  Lucille's 
reserve  will  melt  into  honey,"  Julia  prophesied. 
"The  little  one,  bless  her!  will  have  a  few  qualms 
about  leaving  her  mother  and,  maybe  —  somebody 
else.  But  she'll  follow  Lucille,"  was  added  so  quickly 
that  any  one  not  born  a  man  would  have  noticed. 
"I  tell  you,  Jim,  they  simply  must  go.  It's  not  only 
for  the  good  effect  it  will  have  on  themselves  and  you." 
Here  her  listener  moaned  deeply.  "But,  for  my  own 
purposes  I  want  them  out  of  the  way  for  awhile, 
definitely  removed  from  Ciceley.  This  is  funda 
mental  for  all  our  plans  and  hopes;  and  I  can't  for 
the  life  of  me,  figure  out  another  way  of  accomplishing 
it." 

"But  what,  in  God's  name,  am  I  to  do  with  myself 
and  them,  when  we  get  to  New  York?"  he  intoned 
gloomily.  His  shoulders  were  now  bent  over.  The 
big,  shaggy  head  went  down  into  his  hands.  His 
whole  relaxed  figure  was  so  instinct  with  despondency 
that  Julia's  keen  eyes  softened. 

"  You  sha'n't  have  a  bit  of  the  trouble  of  managing," 
she  soothed,  laying  one  hand  on  the  great  shoulder 
next  her.  "I've  thought  everything  out.  The  de 
tails  will  be  carried  on  by  me  personally  through 
telegrams  and  letters.  All  you  will  need  to  do  is  to 
step  on  the  New  York  express  at  our  depot,  and  step 
off  again  when  it  stops.  I  shall  see  that  a  special 
taxicab  is  sent  by  a  certain  New  York  hotel  to  meet 
you.  Even  your  suite  of  rooms  will  be  already  en 
gaged.  Besides,  the  girls  won't  be  hanging  to  your 
coat-tails  day  and  night.  I  shall  write  Jennie  Brandt 
to  call  on  them  at  once,  and  establish  herself  as 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  205 

official  chaperone.  You  remember  Jennie,  don't 
you,  —  Jennie  Tarleton,  that  was?" 

Jim  nodded  vaguely.     He  refused  to  be  consoled. 

''She  married  a  Brandt  of  Virginia,  connected 
with  one  of  the  big  tobacco  trusts.  He  is  a  multi 
millionaire  now,  and  has  a  ripping  big  house  in  New 
York,  besides  one  at  Tuxedo.  They  never  had  any 
children,  and  Jennie  will  be  wild  with  delight  at  the 
chance  of  exploiting  such  girls.  You  see,"  she 
elaborated,  "I've  just  visited  her,  and  I  know. 
She'll  not  only  entertain  them,  drive  them  all  over 
the  State  in  her  wonderful  touring  car,  and  see  that 
they  meet  other  young  people,  but  I  shall  put  her  in 
special  charge  of  their  shopping." 

The  last  word  came  with  a  meaning  emphasis. 
Julia's  eyes  lighted  with  fun.  But  Jim,  for  all  his  re 
sponse  to  her  sally,  might  have  been  a  large  lump  of  clay. 

"Of  course  they'll  have  any  amount  of  shopping," 
she  spurred  deeper.  ^"Richmond  Hill  fashions  won't 
pass  on  the  Avenue.  That's  where  the  first  hole  in 
your  check  book  will  start." 

All  she  extorted  by  this  was  a  gesture  of  scornful 
repudiation.  Julia  looked  blank  for  an  instant. 
Then  her  wits  rallied.  "You'll  have  quite  a  lot  of 
buying  for  yourself,  you  know,"  she  announced 
cheerily.  "At  least  two  new  suits,  neckties,  shirts, 
and  neither  the  shirts  nor  the  ties  with  a  touch  of 
red."  Jim  swallowed,  and  dragged  on  his  tie,  which 
bore  a  resemblance  to  the  strip  of  red  flannel  Aunt 
Nycie  employed  for  sore  throat. 

"Smart  shoes  are  a  passion  this  season,"  she  went 
on.  Her  glance  traveled  downward,  at  which  Jim, 


206  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

starting  convulsively,  withdrew  his  large  feet  with 
such  swiftness  that  the  bench  was  pitched  forward, 
and  very  nearly  sent  them  to  earth. 

Under  this  final  and  most  bitter  decree,  the  victim 
writhed  silently.  His  eyes,  seeking  hers,  were  those 
of  a  suffering  animal.  Of  all  things  distasteful  to 
Jim,  the  purchase  and  wearing  of  new  clothes  were 
the  worst. 

Julia,  to  outward  appearance,  remained  unrelent 
ing.  "Yes,  at  least  three  pairs  of  shoes,"  she  pur 
sued.  "And  all  in  the  latest  style.  I'll  write  you 
names  and  addresses  of  both  tailor  and  shoemaker. 
With  your  splendid  shoulders,  Jim,  and  your  looks, 
it  is  nothing  short  of  an  outrage  to  humanity  to  go 
round  all  spotted  and  wrinkled  like  this.  Just  look 
at  your  waistcoat  this  minute!"  Jim  writhed  like 
a  worm  stung  by  ants. 

"You  naive,  curious  creatures  called  men,"  she 
went  on,  with  light,  scorn- touched  lashes,  "take  for 
granted  that  women  care  nothing  about  your  clothes. 
Well,  they  do,  all  of  them,  even  when  they  don't 
know  it.  I  want  you  to  turn  from  a  grub  to  a  butter 
fly  on  this  trip,  Jim,  and  come  back  looking  as  un 
like  the  elderly  pucker  of  wretchedness  you  now  are 
as  I,  in  this  Doucet  creation,  am  unlike  poor  Sis, 
in  her  children's  cast-off  clothes.  You  will  do  it? 
You  promise?" 

The  muttered  assent  was  a  clod,  heaved  up  from 
black  depths. 

"Dear  Jim,"  crooned  her  voice,  "you'll  be  glad. 
It  is  all  in  the  quest  for  your  heart's  desire.  That  is 
worth  any  trouble  and  effort,  —  now,  isn't  it?" 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  207 

Jim  sighed,  but  his  face  showed  a  lifting  of  gloom. 
"You're  a  wonderful  planner,"  he  said,  after  a  little 
pause.  "Have  you  considered  yet  what  is  to  become 
of  Ciceley  with  both  of  her  girls  away?" 

"Have  I!"  she  vaunted.  "That's  a  pretty  big 
slice  of  the  whole.  The  very  day  you  leave,  Wick 
and  I  shall  move  out  to  Little  Sunshine." 

"Does  Ciceley-  '  he  began,  then  shut  up  his 
eyes.  She  caught  the  twinkle. 

"Not  yet.  How  could  I  say  anything  until  I 
was  sure  of  you?" 

"And  what  kind  of  a  hoodoo  are  you  working  out 
for  Sis?" 

I  She  made  a  small  grimace.  "None  of  your  busi 
ness,"  she  parried.  "My  work  is  here  —  yours  in 
New  York.  And  I  think,"  she  threw  in  with  bright 
malice,  "that  you'll  find  yours  enough." 

"Don't  joke,  Jule,"  he  groaned.  "It's  not  funny. 
It's  hell!" 

"Mossback!"  she  flouted.  "You  think  that  way 
now.  But  wait  till  you  get  in  the  midst  of  the  white 
lights.  Wait  till  that  marvellous  glitter  and  bubble 
of  New  York  stirs  in  your  blood !  My  only  real 
fear,"  she  avowed,  "is  that  you  won't  come  back 
when  I  need  you." 

Jim  glared  in  disgust  at  the  charge. 

"But  listen,"  she  said  to  him  quickly,  "that  was 
chaff.  I  know  you'll  come  back.  Now  I  have  some 
thing  exciting  to  tell  you,  —  a  piece  of  good  news 
that  I've  saved  to  the  last.  Besides  Jennie  Tarleton 
and  all  she  can  do  for  the  girls,  you're  to  have  an 
assistant,  —  a  man,  and  a  corker  at  that,  —  who 


208  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

will  be  at  the  same  hotel.  It  is  some  one  you 
know." 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  cried  Jim.  "A  man  —  a 
real  man  —  who  will  tag  about  with  them,  and  sit 
at  our  table  ?  If  you're  fooling  me,  Jule !  -  Is  it 
sure?" 

"Sure  as  that  we're  sitting  on  this  rickety  bench, 
and  I  hear  my  car  starting  down  from  the  top  of  the 
Hill,"  answered  Julia,  springing  to  her  feet. 

Jim  followed.     "His  name  —  for  God's  sake." 

"Mark  Stanwood." 

"Mark  Stanwood,"  cried  Jim,  a  shadow  of  swift 
disappointment  blotting  the  hope  from  his  face. 
"That  cub!" 

"Not  much  cub  left  to  him  now,"  laughed  the 
other.  "He's  well  over  thirty,  and  also  six  feet. 
He's  an  officer  in  a  crack  London  regiment,  and  al 
together  one  of  the  most  eligible  young  men  on  this 
earth." 

Jim  was  duly  impressed.  "Then  will  he,  you 
think  —  can  I  count  on  him  helping  me  out  —  hang 
ing  round?  Won't  he  be  off  chasing  girls?" 

"Be  off  —  with  Lucille  and  that  cluster  of  clove- 

9 

pinks  called  Sylvia  under  Uncle  Jim's  wing!" 

"I  see,"  grinned  the  Uncle.  "Lord,  Jule,  you 
have  taken  a  ton  of  bricks  off  my  chest !  Here's  the 
car.  But  I'm  sorry.  Can't  you  stay  for  the  next?" 
"No,  those  letters,  the  business  one  specially," 
she  grimaced.  From  the  platform  she  leaned  down 
to  him.  "  Come  over  to  Little  Sunshine  at  just  about 
the  same  time  to-morrow.  And  -  "  here  she  shook  a 
dainty  forefinger  so  close  to  his  nose  that  he  blinked, 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  209 

"whatever  else  you  do,  don't  dare  to  go  near  it  till 
then." 

"All  right,  Xantippe,"  he  agreed.  "I'll  go  hide  in 
the  swamp  till  that  hour." 

As  the  car  sped,  Rover,  with  invariable  idiocy, 
started  in  frantic  pursuit.  Jim,  as  inevitably, 
hurled  bloodthirsty  adjectives,  emphasized  now  and 
again  by  small  stones. 

Her  last  glimpse  of  them  showed  a  repentant, 
panting  canine,  hanging  his  head  by  a  tall  figure, 
which  to  the  watcher's  loving  eyes  seemed,  all  at 
once,  to  have  gained  a  new  hope  in  its  bearing. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

MOTHER  AND  SON 

WICKFORD  returned  to  the  hotel  barely  in  time  for 
his  change.  Julia  had  been  ready  for  quite  ten 
minutes,  and  already  had  ordered  a  taxicab  to  stand 
in  waiting,  when  Wick's  signal  on  the  door,  three 
quick,  successive  taps,  given  this  time,  —  or  so  it 
appeared  to  the  listener,  —  with  the  effect  of  nervous 
energy,  announced  his  arrival. 

At  her  gay  "entrez",  he  shot  in.  Her  lifted  eyes 
sparkled  to  see  that,  despite  haste  and  tardiness,  he 
had  not  forgotten  her  flowers.  It  was  an  established 
love-custom  between  them  that  in  dining  together  it 
should  be  her  son's  flowers  that  she  wore.  No  matter 
what  others  had  been  sent,  or  how  much  more  suit 
able  the  lesser  offerings  might  prove,  those  of  her 
boy  had  the  preference. 

This  evening,  by  happy  instinct,  he  had  brought 
a  loose  cluster  of  the  white,  waxen  stephanotis, 
backed  with  small  ferns.  Nothing  could  more  per 
fectly  have  harmonized  with  her  gown  of  white  chif 
fon,  shading  to  cream,  with  a  fold  here  and  there  of 
pale  yellow  green,  the  color  of  lily-of-the- valley  foliage 
grown  swiftly  beneath  glass.  In  her  shining  gray 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  211 

hair  she  had  dared  a  green  butterfly,  fashioned  from 
velvet,  with  two  long,  quivering  silver  antennae. 

The  boy's  face,  already  more  than  a  little  flushed, 
deepened  at  sight  of  her.  "Oh,  I  say,  chum,"  he 
cried.  "But  you  do  look  a  stunner!" 

Julia  laughed  happily,  and,  taking  the  flowers, 
passed  into  the  next  room  to  her  dresser  where,  after 
a  few  tentative  and  unsatisfactory  attempts  at  loca 
tion,  she  began  pinning  them  to  the  exact,  needed 
place. 

Wick  followed,  and  lovingly  watched  every  move 
ment. 

"Do  you  know,  I  rather  fancy  myself  this  partic 
ular  evening,"  she  said  saucily,  nodding  toward  him 
from  the  mirror.  "My  gown  is  quite  sure  to  be  the 
prettiest  in  the  room;  and  it's  even  more  certain 
that  I  shall  be  envied,  by  all,  for  my  escort.  What 
more  could  a  mother  desire?" 

"You're  the  very  best  sort  in  the  world,  Mater 
mine,"  he  assured  her,  between  kisses.  "Can  you 
wonder  I've  never  been  able  to  fall  in  love  with  any 
one  else?" 

Through  the  long,  somewhat  over-set  dinner,  she 
frequently  caught  his  bright  eyes  fixed  on  hers.  His 
pride  and  delight  in  her  shone  there  for  all  lookers  to 
see.  No  Broadway  electric  sign,  spinning  its  scin- 
tillant  antics,  was  ever  more  patent. 

With  no  effort,  or  even  desire,  to  preempt,  Julia 
became,  with  the  first  course,  the  focus,  the  unchal 
lenged  center  of  interest.  Her  commonplace  host 
grew  vivacious.  By  the  serving  of  salad,  he  became  in 
his  own  eyes,  a  wit.  Others  leaned  forward  to 


212  THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 

catch  Julia's  phrases.  The  whole  table  waited  on 
her. 

Even  in  London,  where  dining-out  ranks  as  a  fine 
art,  Wick  had  been  used  to  this  gratifying  process; 
but  somehow,  down  here  in  the  South,  clustered 
about  by  old  friends  and  associates,  it  took  on  a 
subtler  triumph. 

This  look  on  her  son's  face  Julia  called,  in  her  heart, 
her  "reward",  spelling  the  word  with  a  very  large 
capital  "R." 

During  the  short  drive  back  to  the  hotel,  neither 
spoke ;  though  Julia  sighed  once  in  a  sort  of  luxurious 
satisfaction;  and  the  lips  of  both  smiled.  All  the 
gay  chatter  just  left,  the  glamor  of  compliments,  the 
certainty  of  having  created  delightful  impressions, 
lifted  and  passed  out  from  them,  like  a  luminous,  in 
consequent  vapor.  They  grew  more  consciously 
silent.  Each  felt,  through  the  mood  of  the  other, 
a  portent  of  things  to  be  said. 

Without  question  or  statement,  Wick  followed  his 
mother  to  her  sitting  room,  closing  the  door  softly 
as  Julia  snapped  on  the  electric  lights. 

"I  hope,"  she  smiled,  speaking  at  last,  "that  you're 
not  tired  or  sleepy." 

At  his  swift  gesture  of  repudiation,  she  threw  in, 
"For  myself,  I  am  fiendishly  wide  awake.  I  feel 
as  if  I  never  should  sleep  again.  I  want  a  long 
talk,  —  a  regular  powwow.  I'm  bursting  for  speech." 

"Same  here !"  he  declared,  and  at  the  spontaneous 
Americanism,  Julia  gave  a  pleased  grin. 

"Then  tuck  yourself  somewhere  away  in  a  big, 
comfy  chair,  and  light  a  cigarette,  while  I  slip  into 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  213 

the  next  room,  and  lay  aside  my  splendor.  One 
really  can't  talk  vital  things  to  the  clinking  of  hard 
ware." 

She  went  from  him  laughing,  her  two  arms  upheld 
in  the  act  of  unfastening  the  necklace  so  ignomin- 
iously  described,  and  returned  in  a  loose,  clinging 
garment,  more  charming  and  chic  than  the  evening 
gown  just  superseded.  Great  shadowy  pink  poppies 
appeared  floating  beneath  a  thin  swirl  of  foam.  A 
pink  girdle  bound  it,  and  all  about  her  throat  the 
foam  surged  and  fretted  into  a  fairy-like  spume  of  lace. 
All  jewels  were  gone,  except  the  plain,  narrow  wedding 
ring.  The  green  butterfly,  stuck  in  a  pincushion, 
quivered  alone.  She  looked  young,  almost  girlish,  in 
spite  of  the  sheen  on  her  gray-touched  coiffure. 
Since  the  historic  moment  of  burning  her  veil,  Wick 
had  never  seen  her  except  charmingly  arrayed. 

"Now  this,"  she  exclaimed,  sinking  into  the  big 
chair  he  drew  up  for  her,  "is  what  I  call  living !  Yes, 
you  can  give  me  a  cigarette."  As  she  held  up  her 
face  for  the  lighting,  her  eyes  crinkled  mischievously. 
"I'm  getting  a  picture,"  she  told  him,  as  she  gave 
out  a  long,  happy  puff,  "of  the  faces  of  the  Rich 
mond  Hill  dames,  when  they  first  catch  me  smoking." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Wick.  "I'll  wager  they  all  do 
it  on  the  side.  All  women  smoke.  I've  never  met 
one  yet  who  didn't." 

"That  was  in  England.  You've  much  yet  to  learn 
of  your  native  land.  Down  here  it  ranks  with  the 
breaking  of  biblical  commandments.  Your  Cousin 
Ciceley,  for  instance.  She  would  just  as  soon  murder 
a  baby  as  smoke.  Poor,  dear,  little  Sis." 


2i4  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  the  boy  ceased  to 
smile.  "Mother,"  he  questioned,  speaking  slowly 
and  with  evident  earnestness,  "what  is  it  wrong  with 
Mrs.  Bering,  —  Cousin  Ciceley,  I  mean  ?  What  is 
the  matter  with  her?" 

"With  Sis?"  parried  Julia,  pretending  surprise. 
"How  do  you  mean,  'what's  the  matter'?" 

"Her  looks  —  her  —  her  —  timidity.  She  isn't  so 
old,  not  much  older  than  you,  I  should  say.  And 
yet,  see  the  difference !  Somehow  she  gives  the  im 
pression  of  the  typical  poor  relation." 

"And  that  is  precisely  what  Ciceley  has  allowed 
herself  to  become.  She's  a  mere  household  drudge, 
a  bound,  cringing  slave  to  her  daughters,  and  you  see 
for  yourself  how  much  they  appreciate  it!  She's  a 
warning  against  the  dry-rot  of  Victorian  sentimental 
ity.  It  is  partly  about  Ciceley,  and  a  plan  I  have 
thought  out  to  revitalize  her,  that  I  am  so  eager  to 
talk.  But,  first,  before  Ciceley,  there's  some 
thing  -  She  leaned  toward  him  swiftly.  Wick, 
true  to  his  English  schoolboy  training,  remained  out 
wardly  impassive,  but  she  saw  in  his  steady  gray  eyes 
the  spark  of  a  new,  vivid  interest. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me,"  she  said,  "how  you  felt 
when  you  first  saw  Lucille." 

The  little  flame  died,  though  he  answered  her 
promptly.  "What  is  there  to  think,  except  that 
she  is  an  incredible,  astounding  beauty?  I  don't 
believe  that  a  microscope  would  discover  a  flaw  in 
Lucille,  and  yet,  —  all  the  same  - 

"Yes,  and  yet  —  all  the  same?"  led  on  Julia,  with 
evident  eagerness. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  215 

"There's  something,  —  it's  hard  to  describe. 
Something  negative  and  withdrawn.  She  reminds 
a  chap,  somehow,  of  that  girl  in  Tennyson,  'icily 
regular,  splendidly  null.'  She  is  too  complete  for  a 
girl,  too  assured  of  herself.  When  she  is  sitting  or 
standing  quite  still,  she  appears  to  be  —  waiting." 

"You  are  near  being  right,"  Julia  nodded,  and 
could  not  forbear  a  pleased  smile  at  her  son's  keen 
analysis.  "But  Lucille  is  not  null.  Make  no  mis 
take  there.  She's  alert  and  aware  to  each  separate 
thread  of  gold  on  her  head.  As  for  waiting,  I  know 
what  you  mean,  but  I  should  say,  rather,  that  Lucille 
abides." 

"Trust  you  every  time  for  the  right  word!" 
cried  he,  and  then,  twitching  his  shoulders  as  if 
in  impatience  of  the  topic,  he  demanded  quite 
boldly,  "And  what  of  the  other  —  the  little  one, 
Sylvia?" 

"The  little  one,  Sylvia."  The  echo  was  scarcely 
more  than  a  breath.  Without  answer  at  once,  she 
leaned  back,  and  her  eyes  wandered  past  Wick,  seeing 
again  her  dream.  In  the  silence,  she  almost  could 
hear  the  quickened  beats  of  the  boy's  heart.  "Little 
Sylvia,"  she  smiled,  "is  a  nosegay  —  a  small,  close- 
set  nosegay  of  roses,  wee,  pink,  ruffled  roses.  Per 
haps  there's  a  clove-pink  slipped  in.  Wherever  the 
little  one  moves,  there  should  be  the  wings  of  small 
yellow  butterflies.  Within  the  first  hour,  Sylvia 
went  deep  into  my  heart." 

And  still  she  did  not  look  at  him.  He  gave  a  low 
sound,  then  swallowed  hard.  His  hands,  on  the  arm 
of  the  chair,  had  been  moving.  Now  they  clenched 


2i6  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

sharply,  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  strode  to  a 
night-darkened  window,  sent  the  shade  up,  and  stood 
near  the  frame,  looking  down. 

Now  Julia's  eyes  followed.  They  held  an  expres 
sion  that  mothers  alone  understand. 

"Yes,  both  of  those  girls  are  undoubtedly  beauties," 
she  now  lightly  declared,  catching  back  her  usual 
tone  of  voice.  "They're  wonders  to  look  at,  of 
course,  but  nevertheless  they  need  a  good  smacking." 

Wick  wheeled  at  the  outrage.  Calmly  she  lighted 
a  new  cigarette. 

"You  admitted  to  having  noticed  it,  my  dear," 
she  recalled.  "It's  the  way  that  they  treat,  or 
rather  ignore,  their  mother.  Any  woman  with  a 
spark  of  spirit  had  much  rather  be  beaten  than  ig 
nored.  I  am  sure  that  Ciceley  would ;  only  she  has 
let  things  go  on  so  far  that  now  she  doesn't  know  how 
to  assert  herself.  As  soon  as  you  have  sufficiently 
absorbed  the  landscape,  Mr.  Preston,  I'd  like  you  to 
stroll  back  here.  That's  right.  Sit  down.  Fire 
up  another  'ciggy.'  I  am  now  about  to  confide  to 
that  shrinking  young  ear,  —  on  which,  by  the  way, 
at  this  moment,  a  large,  frost-bitten  mosquito  hangs, 
—  a  brief  outline  of  my  latest,  proposed  undertaking. 
At  its  magnitude,  even  I  suffer  qualms.  If  you,  my 
poor  child,  live  to  the  end  of  the  story,  I  am  sure  you 
will  agree  that  in  all  your  fond  mother's  long  and 
checkered  career,  this  is  the  culm  of  audacity.  To 
revivify  a  half -atrophied  existence,  —  to  lead  a  dull 
horse  to  the  waters  of  life,  and  getting  it  there, 
make  it  drink,  —  to  humble  arrogant  youth,  and 
exalt  down-trodden  seniority !  But  there  !  I  antici- 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  217 

pate !  Yes,  you  got  the  mosquito,  and,  thank 
heaven,  did  not  smear  him  over  your  visage.  All's 
right  with  the  world!  Now,  attend!" 

In  crisp,  lucid  phrases  she  told  him  of  Jim's  long 
romance,  of  his  recent  despair,  and  his  appeal  to 
herself  as  an  advocate.  Humorously  she  sketched 
her  conception  of  Ciceley's  absurd  and  untenable 
attitude.  "Her  heart  in  the  grave  with  her  hus 
band!"  scoffed  Julia.  "Pooh!  Rubbish!  That 
early  Victorian  mush  makes  me  ill !  Think  how  un 
pleasant,  if  true.  She'd  need  antiseptics.  And  her 
life's  dedication  to  his  children !  Just  a  weak  way 
of  announcing  her  acceptance  of  all  the  negatives 
and  none  of  the  radium-thrilled  positives !  I  blame 
Sis  far  more  than  the  girls.  All  the  same,  I've  decided 
to  save  her."  As  a  climax  to  his  part  of  her  oration, 
she  informed  Wick  of  her  advice  to  Jim,  about  taking 
the  girls  to  New  York. 

Wick  had  been  listening  with  most  commendable 
attention.  His  bright  face  had  showed  all  along 
not  only  keen  comprehension,  but  unmistakable 
assent.  Now,  at  the  mention  of  New  York,  he  cried, 
in  quick  protest,  "Sylvia  to  be  taken  away!" 

"Of  course,  goose!  Lucille  couldn't  very  well  go 
without  Sylvia.  The  fact  is,  they  both  must  get  out. 
I've  lots  to  do  here  with  their  mother,  and  I  simply 
can't  stir  with  the  handicap  of  their  presence.  I 
need  a  free  field  and  no  critics.  Surely  you  must 
see  this !" 

Wick,  nodding  dejectedly,  confessed  that  he  did. 
"You  don't  think,"  he  ventured,  "that  I  had  better 
go  along  too?" 


2i8  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

"By  no  means!  I  need  you  too  badly  right  here. 
There  is  plenty  to  busy  us."  She  hurried  on,  giving 
him  her  idea  of  moving  out  to  Little  Sunshine. 
"Ciceley  can't  stay  there  alone,  and  besides,  it  is 
best  for  my  plans  to  keep  near  her.  We'll  need  a 
machine  at  this  distance  from  town.  Let's  go  out 
and  look  for  one,  first  thing  to-morrow.  You  re 
member,"  she  said,  as  if  to  excuse  the  extravagance, 
"we  had  already  decided  to  get  a  new  model.  The 
old  Siddeley  you  sold  in  London  fetched  a  good  price, 
due  to  your  cleverness.  Of  course,"  she  flung  in, 
while  still  the  boy  smiled  at  her  tribute,  "we'll  ar 
range  with  Ciceley,  first  of  all,  that  we  are  to  put  in 
our  share  of  expenses."  At  the  word  "share",  she 
gave  him  a  most  significant  wink.  "Think  of  the 
fun  of  speeding  along  that  dear  Old  Shell  Road,  in 
and  out  from  town !  We  must  take  Cousin  Ciceley 
for  long  drives,  and  try  to  coax  some  color  back  into 
her  poor  little  face.  There'll  be  parcels  to  bring,  - 
heaps  of  parcels !  And,  best  of  it  all,  we  will  make 
Ciceley  fix  the  old  place  up  as  a  welcome  and  a  sur 
prise  to  the  returning  travelers." 

Wick  struck  at  the  bait  like  a  trout.  "That  sounds 
bully.  There's  nothing  more  fascinating  than  get 
ting  a  neglected  place  back  into  order.  But,  how 
about  money?  Cousin  Ciceley  doesn't  seem  to  be 
very  well  off." 

"Here's  where  our  'share  of  expenses'  comes  in." 

"I  ought  to  have  known  without  asking,"  he 
laughed.  "Mater,  you  are  a  peach!  Jove,  I  long 
to  begin  this  minute.  The  first  thing  will  be  to  paint 
over  those  big,  mildewed  columns.  Next,  I  should 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  219 

say,  cut  the  road-borders  clean.  A  lot  of  the  bricks 
at  the  edge  of  the  flower-beds  need  straightening. 
They  look  like  old  teeth  after  a  fight.t  I  didn't  realize 
before  that  I  had  noticed  such  details,  but  it  seems 
that  I  did.  Somehow,  a  line  out  of  place  has  a  weird 
way  of  jumping  at  me,  hitting  me  right  in  the  eyes." 

Julia  leaned  back,  and  from  sheer  happiness  began 
to  laugh,  It  was  all  working  out  better  than  even 
her  optimistic  spirit  had  ventured  to  hope.  She  led 
him  on  tactfully,  commending,  suggesting,  enhancing, 
-  until  to  the  vision  of  both,  Little  Sunshine  arose 
recreated,  its  long  vanished  splendors  restored. 

"You  get  it  from  me  straight  enough,"  sighed  the 
mother  contentedly.  "Your  passion,  I  mean,  for 
reclaiming  things  going  to  waste.  Whether  a  home 
in  decay,  or  a  person,  the  aesthetic  effect  is  the  same. 
You  remember  what  we  made  out  of  our  cottage  in 
Surrey?  Well,  there  are  great  things  to  be  done 
right  here.  But  next,"  she  declared,  sitting  upright, 
"by  order  of  the  court,  we're  to  talk  just  of  you." 

The  word  came  as  sharp  as  a  bullet.  Wick's  eyes 
opened  wide.  "Talk  of  me!  We've  been  talking 
of  me  all  along,  —  at  least,  in  some  part.  I  am  in 
it,  I  fancy.  There's  nothing  more  special  of  me!" 

"Oh,  isn't  there,  though,"  she  retorted.  "Well, 
for  one  little  thing — " 

"Here,  hold  on  there,  Mater!  Shift  to  second. 
You  don't  need  more  power,  God  knows.  But  I've 
got  to  slow  down  on  this  curve.  I'm  beginning  to 
skid!" 

"You're  a  nice  sort  of  sport  for  a  running  mate," 
Julia  derided.  "If  you  really  feel  queer,  here's  my 


220  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

foot  on  the  brake,  and  the  road  ahead  is  as  bare  as  a 
church  aisle  on  Monday.  It's  your  future,  your 
material  future,  I  want  to  discuss,  —  whether,  by 
now,  you  have  begun  to  feel  anything  like  a  pref 
erence  for  any  special  profession  or  business,  or, 
more  important  still,  in  what  locality  you  would 
care  to  practise  it." 

"Oh,  that  all!"  exclaimed  Wick,  with  a  relish  soon 
followed,  to  Julia's  secret  delight,  by  something  re 
sembling  chagrin.  "I  thought  - 

"Do  you  recall,"  she  put  in  rather  quickly,  "that 
on  the  night  of  your  twenty-first  birthday  we  had  a 
long  heart-to-heart,  something  like  this?" 

"The  idea  of  asking!  You  wanted  me  then,  when 
I  spoke  of  choosing  some  business,  to  wait  until 
after  this  visit  to  the  South.  It  was  so  unlike  you 
to  suggest  postponing  things,  I  was  awfully  puzzled. 
I  couldn't  quite  get  you  — 

"And  now  that  you're  here,  do  you  begin  to  under 
stand?" 

For  an  instant  his  eyes  fell  from  hers ;  then  meet 
ing  them  bravely,  he  cried,  "Hang  it  all,  Mater.  A 
chap  might  as  well  be  made  of  glass !" 

She  smiled,  but  her  face  had  grown  wistful. 
"Wick,  dear  boy,"  she  said  earnestly,  "don't  you  see 
it's  because  Roentgen  rays  are  mere  putty,  compared 
with  a  love  such  as  mine?  But  don't  think  that 
because  of  the  insight  I  shall  ever  attempt  to  impose 
my  beliefs  or  convictions  on  you.  Your  will  is 
yourself.  I  gave  you  life,  that  is  true,  but  sometimes 
I  have  shivered  to  realize  all  that  it  means.  It's 
like  loosing  a  bird  from  the  hand,  a  soul  from  the 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  221 

golden  security  of  Nirvana.  We  mothers  can  love, 
we  can  help  just  a  little,  but  the  soul,  when  once 
freed,  must  work  out  its  own  strength  and  purpose. 
You  know  that  in  my  eyes  each  individual  is  sacred. 
You  can  realize,  with  such  a  belief,  what  you  mean 
to  me,  —  you,  my  own  son." 

''Mother,"  he  cried,  with  a  break  in  the  clear,  boy 
ish  voice,  "no  girl  has  ever  been,  or  ever  can  be  to  me, 
just  what  you  are  !" 

"I  know  it,"  she  answered,  with  a  proud  lifting  of 
the  head.  "Perhaps  better  than  you,  my  dear  boy, 
do  I  know  it.  I  wear  it  always,  and  consciously, 
as  my  diadem.  No  sweetheart,  no  wife,  not  even 
your  children,  can  ever  usurp  just  my  place.  But 
Wick,  in  a  full,  normal  life,  those  niches  should  have 
their  saints  too.  No  mother  worth  being  a  mother  can 
look  to  her  only  son's  future,  not  wishing  them  filled. 

"But  we're  getting  at  things  rather  fast,  are  we 
not?"  she  veered  suddenly.  "We  haven't  finished 
planning  for  now.  We've  been  at  home  barely  a 
day,  and  yet  I  can  see  that  for  you,  as  for  me,  the 
old  influences  quicken.  We  love  England  well,  and 
surely  shall  go  back  there  often.  But  each  man  must 
have  some  definite,  certain  nook  on  the  old  world's 
green  surface,  a  place  he  calls  his  —  he  calls  — 
home.  Shall  your  nook  be  in  England,  a  great 
Northern  city,  or  —  here?" 

"Here,  Mater!  By  all  the  Gods  of  the  Greeks, 
right  here!"  shouted  Wickford,  and  in  excitement 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

Julia  held  tight  to  her  chair,  she  longed  so  to  follow. 

"It's  slow,  our  old  South,"  she  now  tempted  and 


222  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

tested.  "Only  lately  she  has  begun  really  to  lose 
the  paralysis  of  war.  There  is  more  money  to  make, 
many  more  opportunities  for  pleasure,  up  North." 

"Darn  the  North.    Why,  this  —  this  is  already  - 
home." 

"And  about  your  taking  up  business?  You  must 
realize,  dear,"  she  urged  very  softly,  though  her 
clutch  was  so  tense  that  the  knuckles  had  turned 
greenish- white,  "that  unless  you  are  keen  upon  try 
ing  it,  there's  really  no  need.  Your  father  left  money. 
There  are  building  lots  —  houses  —  right  here.  And 
besides,  by  good  luck,  my  investments  are  all  doing 
well.  We  are  rich." 

Wick  stopped  short  of  her  chair.  His  gray  eyes 
were  flashing.  "And  a  hell  of  a  cad  I  would  be," 
he  cried  angrily,  "to  be  willing  to  hang  on  for  life. 
That  money  is  yours.  I  shall  make  my  own  living. 
I  don't  know  quite  yet  how  I'll  do  it,  but  there  are 
plenty  of  ways.  And  what's  more,"  he  reiterated 
warmly,  "my  choice  of  a  place  is  the  South,  where 
you  and  my  father  and  I  all  belong." 

At  this  Julia,  abandoning  pretence  and  restraint 
in  a  single  ecstatic  cry,  rose  to  hurl  herself  bodily 
upon  him. 

"Oh,  you  dear  boy  —  you  one  blessing!  You 
incredible  dear!"  she  sobbed  out.  "I  thought  that 
I  loved  you  before,  Wick,  but  now  —  Oh,  I  hardly 
can  stand  it !" 

She  searched  about  blindly  for  a  pocket  handker 
chief,  and  finding  none,  slipped  her  fingers  into  Wick's 
left  cuff  for  his. 

The  boy  strained  her  close.     "Why,  Mater,  what's 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  223 

wrong?  Are  you  crying?  I  never  have  seen  you 
like  this  in  my  life !  Have  I  said  what  I  shouldn't? 
Have  I  hurt  you,  my  dear,  darling  mother?" 

"Oh,  most  precious  of  idiots!"  answered  she,  in 
laughter  and  tears  "You  have  said  everything  — 
done  everything  —  with  such  heavenly  perfection  that 
I  scarcely  can  hope  it  is  true.  No,  I'm  not  crying, 
not  now.  The  tears  are  just  oozings  of  radium.  Now 
let's  sit  down  again,  for  I've  found,  or  I  think  that 
I've  found,  the  exact  sort  of  work  for  you.  Will 
you  take  mother  in  as  a  partner?" 

"Will  I  just  —  you  dear  angel !" 

"What  we  do  out  at  Ciceley's  will  be  a  sort  of  be 
ginning.  I've  had  this  in  my  mind  all  along.  My 
plan  is  to  buy  up  old  places,  —  or  even  especially 
hideous  new  ones,  —  remodel,  restore,  and  make 
each  one  beautiful.  We  will  fashion  a  garden  that 
will  be  an  artistic  extension  of  the  architecture. 
Even  the  colors  of  flowers  and  of  course  the  shrub- 
grouping  will  be  part  of  a  whole.  Then  we  can 
rent  or  sell,  and  go  on  to  others.  I  am  sure  we'll 
make  money,  and  better  even  than  that,  we  can  lift 
the  whole  tone  of  our  small  sleepy  home-town.  Does 
it  seem  good  in  your  eyes?" 

The  town  clock  struck  two  before  Wick  could  be 
driven  to  bed.  Not  only  a  group  of  old  homes,  but 
long  streets  had  been  rebuilt  and  glorified.  He  went 
from  her  room  a  young  conqueror,  his  battle  of  life 
already  won. 

"Pleasant  dreams  to  the  builder  of  beauty,"  she 
called  after  him  softly.  For  awhile  she  sat  on  in 
her  chair.  She  needed  no  sleep  for  her  dreaming. 


224  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

At  last  in  her  chamber  she  disrobed  slowly,  re 
placing  each  article  with  care.  This  punctilious 
neatness,  which  had  not  been  part  of  her  girlhood, 
had  grown,  through  the  necessities  of  travel,  into  a 
fixed  and  meticulous  habit.  She  busied  herself 
quite  unthinking,  her  mind  far  away. 

At  the  bedside  she  did  not  kneel,  but  drew  herself 
upright  more  slenderly.  Her  head,  with  its  trailing 
gray  hair,  went  up  slowly,  and  her  shining  eyes  closed. 
"Dear  God,"  she  said,  speaking  aloud  as  one  speaks 
to  a  beloved  and  familiar  friend,  "I  thank  You  for 
life." 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

THE  PLANKS  OF  COLONEL  JIM'S  BRIDGE  BURN, 
ONE  AFTER  ONE 

JIM  woke  the  next  morning  buoyant  and  tingling 
with  an  excitement  not  at  first  clearly  realized.  All 
of  his  dreams  had  been  golden.  Even  the  episode 
where  he  had  believed  himself  Rover,  pursuing  eter 
nally,  with  long,  dripping  tongue,  a  New  York  ex 
press  train  which  eternally  kept  a  scant  three  thunder 
ous  inches  in  front  of  his  nose,  did  no  more  than 
awake  him  to  laughter.  Audibly  he  flung  to  this 
dream-dog,  himself,  a  random  assortment  of  epi 
thets,  usually  kept  for  the  orthodox  canine. 

This  put-upon  beast,  sleeping  on  the  floor  near 
the  foot  of  his  master's  bed,  sprang  to  his  feet,  growl 
ing  fiercely.  It  took  a  rough  rub  of  his  head  and 
some  reassuring  speech  to  send  him  back  partly,  if 
not  utterly  convinced,  that  his  Deity  was  sane. 

With  his  next  dream  Jim  literally  entered  Paradise. 
He  walked  in  a  Garden  of  Hesperides,  but  the  fruit 
was  of  his  own  growing.  Ciceley  moved  beside  him. 
On  her  head  was  a  small  wreath  of  the  blossoms.  The 
smile  that  she  lifted  was  that  of  a  bride.  This  magic 

225 


226  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

dream-fragrance  reached  far  out  into  waking.  Jim 
dressed  himself  slowly,  his  very  breath  consciously 
restrained,  lest  the  aroma  should  vanish.  The  trip 
to  New  York  gained  fresh  meaning.  Now,  to  his 
own  great  surprise,  he  was  eager  to  start.  As  Julia 
had  pointed  out,  it  was  all  in  the  quest  of  his  Heart's 
Desire  and  worth  any  trouble.  It  took  a  woman's 
intuition  to  see  to  the  core  of  a  sister-woman. 

But  even  supposing  that  Ciceley  should  change, 
should  show  by  her  sweet,  brown  eyes  that  she 
could  love  him,  he  had  pledged  himself  and  her 
never  again  to  suggest  marriage. 

At  this  blighting  recollection,  the  dingy  red  neck 
tie,  which  in  his  absent-mindedness  he  had  taken  up, 
jerked  round  his  throat  like  the  noose  of  a  hangman. 

Never,  no,  never,  would  he  break  that  last  solemn 
pledge.  If  he  did,  Sis  would  rightly  despise  him ; 
not  to  mention  his  own  self-disgust.  Finding  him 
self  nearly  strangled,  he  loosened  his  bonds  with 
an  oath.  He  glared  at  the  magenta-colored  face  in 
the  mirror,  and  told  it  savagely  that  the  game  was 
up  even  before  it  had  started.  "What  possessed 
you  to  promise,  you  fool?"  he  burst  out,  shaking  a 
fist  at  his  glowering  reflection.  "Why,  in  God's 
name,  did  you  mean  it!"  The  incense  of  flowers 
vanished  before  sulphurous  fumes.  Even  Rover 
was  glad  to  escape. 

Then  the  dark  mood  knew  a  sudden  reaction. 
Well,  he  had  asked  Julia's  help ;  he  had  promised 
to  follow  her  lead.  The  gamble  was  on,  and  he 
would  not  be  a  quitter.  "I'll  doll  myself  up  to  the 
limit,"  he  told  himself  bitterly,  and  with  the  words 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  227 

gave  out  a  low  hiss,  copied  from  some  long-forgotten 
stage  villain.  "I'll  stand  by  my  ally;  it's  only  the 
fair  thing  to  her.  I'll  try  to  get  Sis  if  I  can ;  but  I 
won't,  not  for  her  or  Jehovah,  deliberately  eat  any 
more  dirt!" 

With  this  he  emerged  from  his  door,  crossed  the 
huge,  chilly  hall,  and  strode  into  the  dining  room. 
Uncle  Snow  was  just  entering  from  the  farther  end, 
a  large  tray  of  breakfast  precariously  posed. 

"Hurry  up,  there!"  roared  Jim.  "I'm  going  to 
New  York!" 

Uncle  Snow  gave  a  cry.  The  tray  lurched  to  wind 
ward,  and  by  a  swift  act,  as  of  legerdemain,  was 
caught  back  from  a  crash.  When  finally  the  old  man 
set  it  down  before  Jim,  each  dish  and  utensil  chattering 
with  a  separate  ague,  he  reproved,  with  solemnity, 
"Didn't  you  have  no  mo'  sense  dan  dat,  Marse  Jim? 
To  holler  a  scarifyin'  statemint  right  out  when  you 
seen  I  wuz  totin'  yo'  breakfus?  Hit's  de  Lawd's 
mussy  yo'  coffee  ain't  leaking  down  thoo'  de  flo'  dis 
minnit." 

"Well,  it  isn't,"  retorted  Jim,  "so  suppose  you  pour 
out  a  cup,  and  don't  stand  there  enjoying  St. 
Vitus  dance  all  to  yourself.  Yes,  I'm  going  to  New 
York." 

At  each  repetition  of  his  amazing  statement  Jim  had 
the  bewildering  sensation  of  having  set  fire  to  a  fresh 
plank  of  his  bridge.  Water  swirled  dizzily  beneath 
him.  The  fair,  farther  bank  hung  in  mist.  Only  he 
felt  that  upon  it  grew  fruit  more  golden  than  his,  and 
white  blossoms  steeped  in  ambrosia. 

Uncle  Snow,  by  an  effort,  had  recovered  his  jeopard- 


228  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

ized  calm.  "Dis  is  too  soon  in  de  mawnin'  fer  proj- 
ekin',  Marse  Jim,"  he  remonstrated  patiently. 
"You  knows  you  ain't  gwinter  no  New  Yawk.  Don't 
you  see  mor'n  enuff  of  dem  Yankee  agints  of  yourn, 
right  down  here  ?  " 

"Oh,  this  isn't  a  business  trip,  it's  for  pleasure," 
said  Jim,  with  a  small  grimace  at  the  word.  "I'm 
thinking  of  taking  Miss  Ciceley's  two  girls." 

Snow's  incredulity  showed  symptoms  of  breaking 
down.  "What  in  de  name  of  de  Lawd  does  dey  want 
to  go  to  New  Yawk  fer?" 

"  Oh,  partly,"  vouchsafed  Jim,  quite  as  if  it  had  been 
a  matter  of  course,  "to  get  themselves  clothes.  I'm 
going  to  buy  some  too.  All  my  suits  have  grown 
shabby." 

But  this  was  too  much  for  belief.  The  old  man 
grinned  broadly,  shaking  his  white  head  the  while. 

"  Go  on  'bout  yo'  bizness,  Marse  Jim !  I  knows 
you  is  foolin'  me  now.  You  wid  new  close,  huh! 
Yo'  close  wuz  bawn  rusty.  You  likes  'em  dat  way. 
You'll  be  tellin'  me  next,"  he  chuckled,  "dat  you 
gwinter  buy  Rover  a  new  tail !" 

"You  can  grin,  you  old  Chessy  Cat,"  said  the 
other.  "But  it's  true,  just  the  same.  We're  start 
ing  this  coming  Friday  night.  I  want  you  to  look 
over  my  old  trunks  and  valises,  and  see  if  I've  got 
anything  fit  to  take." 

Old  Snow  scratched  his  head.  His  rolling  eyes 
ceased  their  gyrations.  He  looked  straight  at  his 
master,  and  then,  all  at  once,  a  smile  tinged  with 
cunning  and  lit  with  a  gleam,  as  of  hope,  spread  his 
mouth. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  229 

"You  means  dat  fact,  Kunnel  —  'bout  buyin'  new 
close?  You  means  it,  fo'  Gawd?" 

Jim  glanced  at  the  speaker  in  a  little  wonder.  "  Do 
you  want  me  to  take  up  a  hammer  and  drive  it  in, 
you  old  mule?"  he  demanded.  "Why  in  the  devil 
do  you  look  so  pleased?  I  don't  propose  fitting  you 
out." 

"No,  not  wid  new  close,"  murmured  Snow,  with 
an  air  of  concealed  satisfaction.  "  I  wuzn't  er  studyin' 
'bout  dem.  But  hit's  come  to  my  mind  'bout  dat 
ole  long-tailed  black  coat  of  yourn,  what  you  never 
wears  nohow.  Fer  dese  menny  years  now,"  Snow 
confided,  "I'se  been  hopin'  to  git  mah'ied  some  day 
in  dat  coat." 

"  So  that's  where  the  grin  starts ! "  laughed  Jim. 
"Well,  go  get  it  now.  I  don't  want  to  hold  back  your 
wedding.  You  can  have  the  pants,  too  —  and  the 
vest,"  he  shouted  to  vanishing  heels,  for  the  old  man, 
after  a  single  ecstatic  gasp,  had  hurled  himself  into  an 
angular  Marathon.  Before  the  beneficiary  could  re 
turn,  Jim  made  his  escape  to  the  orange  grove. 

This  giving  away  of  his  one  Prince  Albert  loomed  in 
his  mind  as  another  charred  plank.  He  was  being 
more  and  more  definitely  committed  to  the  plunge, 
and  less  and  less  now  did  it  daunt  him. 

He  paced  the  long  ribbons  of  sand  between  heavily- 
laden  shrubs.  Instead  of  his  usual  eager  searching 
for  prophetic  gold  spots  on  the  fruit,  he  now  paused 
in  thoughtful  consideration  near  the  smallest  and 
greenest  of  clusters. 

"Not  for  a  good  four  weeks  yet,  I  should  say,"  he 
remarked,  fingering  a  spheroid  of  malachite. 


230  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

After  this  brief,  if  reassuring  survey,  time  came  all 
at  once  to  a  maddening  halt.  The  forenoon  had 
apparently  been  nailed  down  to  earth.  Never  had 
hours  dragged  so  slowly.  The  case  of  his  big  hunting- 
watch  acquired  a  new  polish  from  the  number  of  times 
it  was  withdrawn  and  impatiently  returned  to  its 
pocket. 

Luncheon  found  him  taciturn,  but  Uncle  Snow, 
faithfully  serving,  and  jellied  in  personal  bliss,  could 
well  afford  temporary  exclusion. 

One  o'clock  finally  arrived.  In  about  half  an  hour 
Jim  would  dare  to  set  forth.  Recalling,  with  a  start 
not  entirely  agreeable,  Julia's  comments  of  the  day 
before  on  his  garments,  he  pulled  out  a  fold  on  his 
waistcoat  and  gazed  at  the  spots. 

"Snow,"  he  called  sharply,  "come  here  !" 

"Yassir,"  rose  instantly  from  the  pantry.  Snow, 
a  large  ebony  crab,  scuttled  into  view. 

"Bring  me  a  bucket  of  water  and  a  scrubbing 
brush." 

"Yassir,"  said  Snow  again  breathlessly.  He  won 
dered,  in  going,  what  new  phase  of  delirium  was  on. 

"I  didn't  ask  you  to  wash  my  feet,  did  I?"  roared 
Jim,  as  he  executed  an  enforced  and  undignified  jig 
to  escape  a  great  splash  of  water.  "  You'll  be  cleaning 
my  teeth  with  it  next.  Here,  if  you  can  let  up  on  the 
palsy  long  enough,  scrape  some  of  this  muck  off  my 
vest." 

The  old  man  obeyed  with  alacrity.  His  expres 
sion,  in  working,  was  not  unlike  that  of  the  schoolboy 
who  makes  a  laborious  copy.  His  woolly  head  canted 
to  one  side,  his  breathing  came  heavily. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  231 

Just  as  the  reeling  earth  had  begun  to  grow  steady 
beneath  him,  a  quick,  imperious,  "Snow,  you  old 
rascal !"  caught  him  back  to  alarm. 

He  stopped  the  painstaking  brush-strokes,  and 
drew  off  to  lift  censuring  eyes ;  but,  perceiving  where 
those  of  "Marse  Jim"  were  now  fixed,  dropped  the 
brush,  and  with  a  gurgle  which  might  have  been 
thankfulness  at  the  chance  of  escaping  that  stare, 
fell  to  his  knees,  and  began  scrubbing  the  floor  in 
wide,  frantic  semicircles. 

"I  don't  seem  to  have  any  recollection,"  came  the 
voice  of  the  accuser  terrifyingly  restrained,  from  the 
still  air  above  him,  "of  giving  you  that  particular 
cravat."  It  was  a  scarf  of  dark  blue,  with  small, 
inconspicuous  white  spots.  Snow  clutched  at  it 
wildly. 

"You  didn't,  Marse  Jim.  Leastways  —  not  eg- 
zacterly,"  he  quavered.  "  I  took  hit  myse'f .  It  was 
layin'  on  de  flo'  by  y'o  bureau.  I  thought  you'd 
done  thow'd  it  away." 

"You  lying,  black  scoundrel,"  cried  Jim,  striving 
hard  not  to  laugh.  "You  know  perfectly  well  if  you 
helped  yourself  to  all  of  my  things  you  found  '  layin' 
on  de  flo'  ',  I'd  be  going  'round  naked.  No,  I  don't 
want  it  now !"  he  exclaimed,  seeing  the  old  man  begin 
a  tremulous  jerking.  "Do  you  suppose  I'd  wear  the 
thing  after  it's  been  round  your  horny  old  neck? 
You  can  hustle  yourself  to  my  room,"  he  ordered. 
"Here,  wait,  take  this  bullfrog  bait  with  you." 
With  the  words  he  began  stripping  from  about  his 
collar  the  streaked  red  necktie  which  yesterday  Julia 
had  scorned.  "See  if  you  can't  find  me  another  like 


232  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

that  of  yours,  under  the  bureau.  If  there  isn't  a  blue 
one,  get  black." 

At  last  he  could  start.  What  would  he  find  waiting 
at  Little  Sunshine  ?  He  had  not  felt  such  excitement 
in  years.  At  one  instant  he  knew  a  keen  hope  that 
the  girls  would  decline  his,  or  rather,  Julia's  sugges 
tion.  At  the  next  he  was  just  a  great  boy  promised 
a  circus,  and  now  suddenly  smitten  by  terror  that 
before  he  could  get  there  the  biggest  elephant  would 
die.  He  turned  from  the  main-thoroughfare  corner 
into  the  dark,  shaded  lane  leading  to  Ciceley's. 
Eagerness  quickened  his  stride.  Rover,  as  usual, 
swung  within  a  few  inches  of  his  heels. 

Halfway  down  the  green  tunnel,  two  young  figures, 
both  laughing,  swept  in  from  an  opposite  street. 
They  were  evidently  racing  each  other.  He  had  been 
unperceived.  He  drew  back  to  a  thick  juniper 
trunk,  and  in  the  same  motion  bent  to  stifle  Rover's 
half-uttered  bark  into  an  outraged,  low  whining. 

It  was  Sylvia,  with  Wickford  in  close  pursuit. 

From  the  time  the  two  Bering  girls  could  reach  the 
old  stirrup  latch,  and  even  before  that  desirable  period, 
when  the  bars  of  the  gate  served  as  stepladder,  they 
had  delighted  in  playing  the  game,  "Who'll  get  it 
first?" 

For  an  hour  or  more  these  two,  at  Julia's  behest, 
had  been  strolling.  "Wick  was  dying  to  see,"  or, 
at  least,  so  his  smiling  mother  averred,  "  the  old  haunts 
of  his  childhood."  The  little  one  very  demurely 
accepted  the  office  of  guide.  All  along  she  had  been  as 
conscious  of  "company  manners"  as  though  they 
had  been  a  pair  of  squeaking  new  shoes. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  233 

She  answered  Wick's  questions  sedately,  but  often, 
when  his  look  was  turned  elsewhere,  fastened  her 
brown  eyes  on  him.  The  boy's  somewhat  exotic 
courtesy,  and,  still  more,  the  queer  English  accent 
which  kept  her  eternally  on  guard  not  to  laugh, 
wrought  an  effect  of  restraint. 

She  liked  Wick,  of  course.  He  was  "nice."  She 
had  never  met  any  one  like  him.  There  was  no  one 
with  eyes  just  like  his.  Their  bright  look,  as  he  met 
hers,  —  and  this  she  avoided  as  often  as  possible,  — 
made  something  inside  her  breast  quiver  and  shrink. 
When  at  last  he  consented  to  turn  their  steps  home 
ward,  she  was  conscious  of  definite  relief. 

At  first  sight  of  her  gate  through  the  trees,  the 
strange  feeling  of  respite  flared  to  excitement.  "Oh, 
there  is  the  gate,"  she  cried  out.  "I  bet  I  can  reach 
the  stirrup  latch  first !" 

She  whirled  from  his  side  like  a  leaf  in  a  storm. 
It  took  Wick  one  moment  to  realize  the  challenge 
and  very  few  more  to  speed  past  her.  He  hung  to  the 
gate,  his  hand  curved,  triumphantly  over  the  old  iron 
boss. 

"You  are  mean,"  panted  she,  crimson-cheeked, 
pouting,  and  dimpled.  "You  let  go.  It's  my 
latch!"  Vainly  the  small  fingers  prodded.  "Ouch! 
Now  you  have  hurt  me,"  she  wailed. 

Wick  abandoned  his  clutch.  Instead,  he  bent  down 
to  her  hands,  catching  and  holding  them.  They  were 
tender  and  soft  as  the  young  leaves  of  spring.  "I 
don't  see  a  bruise.  Where's  the  hurt?"  he  asked 
anxiously.  "I  wouldn't  have  hurt  you  for  worlds  !" 

For  answer  she  caught  them  away,  slid  through  the 


234  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

gate,  and,  sending  back  showers  of  elfin-like  laughter, 
ran  across  the  lawn  and  into  the  house. 

Jim,  smiling  but  looking  quite  thoughtful,  emerged 
from  behind  the  thick  tree.  Was  this  part  of  Julia's 
plan,  too?  Nothing  she  did  would  surprise  him. 
He  shook  his  head  in  a  mute,  if  profound,  recognition 
of  that  marvellous  woman's  abilities. 

Rover,  now  free,  galloped  furiously  away.  He 
didn't  intend  risking  another  such  grip  on  his  nozzle. 
Not  even  at  the  gate  would  he  trust  Jim's  discretion, 
but,  writhing  beneath  the  lowest  bar,  made  his  way  in. 
At  his  loud  bark  of  triumph,  Jim  glanced  apprehen 
sively  toward  the  house.  Of  course,  when  they  heard 
the  fool  barking,  they  would  know  he  had  come. 
They  would  all  be  upon  him  now.  Escape  was  cut  off. 

He  groaned,  and  his  knees  turned  to  sand. 

But  the  long  verandah  remained  empty.  "  Hello  ! " 
whistled  Jim  to  himself.  ''What  does  this  mean? 
Surely  they  haven't  all  left  without  giving  me  warn 
ing!"  Sylvia  and  the  boy  Wickford  were,  to  his 
plans,  of  no  more  concern  than  a  pair  of  gay  humming 
birds. 

From  an  upper-storey  window  a  bright  golden  head, 
that  of  Lucille,  was  suddenly  thrust  forth,  and  as 
quickly  withdrawn.  He  felt,  rather  than  heard,  her 
swift  feet  on  the  stairway. 

"Jumping  Jehosephat!"  he  groaned,  "Have  I  got 
to  get  her  first,  and  all  by  myself !" 

Yes,  here  she  came  shining  toward  him,  an  arrow 
aimed  straight,  its  shaft  glinting  sunlight.  "Oh, 
Uncle  Jim.  Dear  Uncle  Jim,"  she  was  crying.  "Of 
all  blessed  angels!" 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  235 

So  he  was  the  cause  of  this  radiance !  Curses,  all 
deep  muttered  curses  on  Julia,  and  all  meddlesome 
women  of  her  kind.  He  braced  himself  doggedly  for 
the  attack,  and  essayed  a  pleased  smile,  but  the  effort, 
had  Julia  been  there  to  observe  it,  was  strangely  like 
that  of  the  martyr,  St.  Sebastian,  when  turned  to  a 
quivering  pincushion. 

"Crash  !"  was  Jim's  conscious,  if  smothered  impreca 
tion,  as  the  girl's  strong  young  arms  tightened  about 
him.  "There  goes  the  last  plank  of  my  bridge !" 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

PREPARATIONS  ;  AND  THE  WRITING  OF  Two  LETTERS 

"ALL  right.  That's  all  right,  Lucille,"  sputtered 
the  agonized  recipient  of  her  raptures.  "So  you  and 
the  little  one  do  want  to  go  ! "  He  fought  his  way  past, 
detaching  her  lovely  arms  as  though  they  had  been 
octopus  tentacles.  "Where's  your  mother  and  Jule  ?  " 

"We've  all  been  up-stairs,  looking  over  old  trunks 
to  see  if  any  of  them  would  do  to  take,"  answered  she, 
now  a  few  steps  in  the  rear.  She  smiled  with  a  slight 
touch  of  malice  to  notice  that  even  the  back  of 
his  neck  quivered  and  burned  with  discomfiture. 
"They'll  be  down  before  long.  I  told  them  I  wanted 
to  be  the  first  to  thank  you.  How  did  you  ever  happen 
to  think  of  such  a  glorious,  wonderful  thing,  Uncle 
Jim?" 

In  terror  at  the  new  note  of  gratitude,  the  Colonel 
plunged  forward.  His  eyes,  fixed  on  the  still  distant 
door,  cried  for  help.  Dignity  alone  kept  him  from 
breaking  into  a  run.  Then  he  froze  for  a  second  time 
to  a  pillar  of  salt.  The  little  one  had  heard,  and  was 
coming.  "Uncle  Jim!  Uncle  Jim!"  she  cried  out. 
"Are  you  really  going  to  take  us  to  New  York?  I 

236 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  237 

just  can't  believe  it.  It  sounds  like  one  of  my  fairy 
stories." 

He  bent,  with  a  groan,  to  her  kisses.  Would  Julia, 
the  treacherous,  the  unfeeling,  never  come  to  his 
aid? 

Yes,  there  she  was  now,  moving  slowly  and  with 
as  much  smiling  assurance  as  if  her  pledged  ally  were 
not  being  pulled  on  a  rack.  Beside  her,  though  rather 
less  genial,  strolled  Wick.  At  some  little  distance 
behind  both,  he  could  see  the  downbent  head  of 
Ciceley.  Julia  turned  about  now,  and  was  speaking 
in  a  low,  yet  emphatic  voice  to  her  cousin.  Ap 
parently  no  answer  was  given. 

Jim  strode  through  the  group,  straight  to  her  of  the 
downcast  demeanor.  She  shrank,  as  if  pleading,  and 
then  slowly  lifted  a  face  stained  with  tears. 

"Why,  Sis,  you've  been  crying!" 

She  tried  to  release  a  wan  smile,  but  instead  cowered 
back,  and  burst  into  sobbing. 

"Look  here,"  Jim  declared,  swinging  a  sword  glance 
of  defiance  about  him,  and  then  planting  himself  before 
Ciceley  in  the  posture  presumed  to  be  that  of  the 
Rhodian  Colossus.  "Not  one  step  do  I  budge  if 
Ciceley  don't  want  it !  Get  that  ?  " 

"Of  course  Ciceley  wants  it,"  threw  in  Julia  hur 
riedly.  "She's  ecstatic  at  the  thought  of  her  girls 
having  such  a  wonderful  trip.  It  is  only  natural  that, 
just  at  the  first  — 

Jim  cut  her  short  rudely.  "I'm  waiting  to  hear, 
Sis,  from  you." 

Into  the  silence  crept  Sylvia.  "I  don't  want  to  go, 
either,  Uncle  Jim,  if  mother  takes  it  so  hard."  One 


238  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

arm  went  around  the  lax  figure,  but  her  shy,  shining 
eyes  were  for  Wick. 

Lucille  gave  a  sound  of  impatience,  and  opened  her 
lips  to  speak.  At  a  swift,  warning  gesture  from  Julia, 
she  shut  them  to  lines  of  stiff  wax. 

"I  don't  call  it  fair  to  the  girls,"  spoke  up  Julia, 
ignoring  her  recent  rebuff,  "to  force  a  decision  that 
means  so  much  to  them  both  while  Ciceley  is  not 
quite  herself." 

"Don't  notice  'em,  Sis.  Don't  you  hear  'em.  Just 
tell  Jim  you  want  'em  to  stay,  and  they  —  stay ! " 
Again  he  glared  fury. 

"You  know  I  don't  m-m-mean  to  be  selfish,"  wept 
Ciceley.  "I  only  live  for  my  children." 

A  low  "tschk"  of  scorn  from  Lucille  made  her 
start.  "I  realize  what  a  great  chance  it  is  for  them. 
It  was  kind  of  you,  Jim,  very  kind  to  propose  it.  I 
don't  want  to  stand  in  the  way  of  such  a  great  treat. 
But  they've  n-n-never  been  away  from  their  mother  a 
whole  single  night  in  all  of  their  1-1-lives !"  The  final 
word  rose  in  a  crescendo  of  woe. 

Lucille  threw  back  her  head  and  walked  off.  The 
frozen  disgust  in  her  eyes  caught  more  than  a  gleam 
of  response  in  Julia's.  Little  Sylvia  stood  still  near 
her  mother.  Her  hands,  loosely  clasped,  hung  in  front 
of  her.  Her  long  lashes  brushed  her  pink  cheeks. 

"Then  it's  settled !"  cried  Jim,  in  a  tone  which  he 
strove  to  make  hearty.  "No  trip.  We'll  be  happy 
right  here!" 

But  at  this,  Ciceley,  smitten  with  terror,  flew  to 
him  as  a  bird  flies  defending  her  nest.  "No,  no! 
I  don't  want  you  to  say  that !  They're  to  go,  do  you 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  239 

hear?  They're  to  go!  I've  already  agreed.  It  is 
lovely  of  you,  Jim,  to  take  them.  You  can't  back  out 
now.  If  you  did  — 

She  threw  a  frightened  look  at  Lucille,  who,  turning 
again,  had  stood  still,  and  was  watching  with  cruel 
intentness.  "Oh,  Jim!  Please  don't  disappoint 
them  now!" 

"But,  Sis,"  stammered  the  bewildered  man,  "do 
you  know  what  you're  saying  ?  You're  shaking  and 
shivering  now  as  if  you  had  chills.  If  this  is  to  be  a 
new  species  of  martyrdom,  and  I  am  the  cause,  I  cry 
quits.  You  have  enough  to  put  up  with  already !" 

His  eyes,  sapphire-blue  now  with  menace,  went  first 
to  Lucille,  who,  in  meeting  them,  looked  down  de 
murely  ;  and  then  flashed,  with  more  meaning,  to 
Julia.  Ciceley's  reiterated  protests  vanished  in  air. 

"As  I  told  you  before,"  remarked  Julia,  "and  was 
snubbed  for  my  pains  —  this  is  no  time  for  forcing 
a  statement.  We  all  know  the  girls  are  to  go.  And 
now,  if  you  can  stop  glaring  at  me  long  enough,  sup 
pose  you  come  out  and  take  a  look  at  our  new  car?" 

She  wheeled  with  the'air  of  a  victor,  and  went  down 
the  steps.  At  the  far  corner  of  the  house,  half  hidden 
from  view  by  overgrown  shrubs,  stood  a  car,  almost 
startlingly  new.  Every  wind-stirred  leaf  gleamed 
in  it :  even  the  clouds  far  above  moved  in  its  black 
lacquered  surface. 

"  We  are  going  to  town  in  a  little  while,"  Julia  in 
formed  him.  "That  is,  Wickford  and  I  are  to  take 
the  girls  in.  I  have  some  things  at  the  hotel  I  am  to 
lend  them  for  the  trip.  Ciceley  refuses  to  go.  She 
is  nervous,  she  tells  me,  about  riding  in  motors. 


240  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

You  had  better  stay  here  and  keep  her  company. 
We  will  be  back  again  in  less  than  two  hours." 

On  the  drive  Lucille  sat  on  the  rear  seat  with  Julia. 

"Haven't  you  thought,"  asked  the  girl,  in  a  tone 
pitched  too  low  for  the  others  to  hear,  "that  it  may  be 
dangerous  —  this  leaving  Uncle  Jim  alone  with 
mother?" 

"You  mean  —  she  may  yet  influence  him  to  give 
up  the  trip?" 

Lucille  nodded.  Her  face,  in  the  strong  afternoon 
light,  was  as  flawless  and  pure  as  the  petal  of  a  just- 
opened  magnolia  flower. 

"No,"  answered  the  elder  woman,  after  a  moment 
of  consideration.  "Of  course,  I  had  not  ignored  the 
possibility ;  but  I  don't  think  it  really  a  risk.  If  I 
had,  I  should  never  have  left  them." 

Lucille  leaned  back  softly.  From  her  lips  came  a 
sigh  of  relief.  "I  am  sure  that  you  know,  Cousin 
Julia." 

At  this  the  Commended  One,  looking  swiftly  away 
to  hide  her  intelligent  smile,  knew  that  much  had 
been  given. 

She  began  now  to  chatter  irrelevantly,  pointing  out 
things  near  the  road,  but  soon  a  distrust  of  the  girl's 
concentration  came  over  her.  It  was  intensified  by 
the  perception  that  Lucille  never  looked  where  the 
oratrix  pointed,  nor  made  the  slightest  effort  at 
response.  "Now  she's  'abiding,'"  thought  Julia. 
"It  won't  do  to  let  this  run  on.  I'm  not  ready  for  it." 

Throwing  herself  back  into  the  one  topic  Lucille 
had  broached,  she  said,  as  if  lightly  continuing  a 
theme  never  abandoned : 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  241 

"Yes,  I  am  quite  sure  there's  no  risk.  For  one 
thing,  Jim  wants  to  go  now.  I  am  not  at  all  certain 
he  knows  it,  but  his  mind's  set  on  going.  Then 
Ciceley  —  your  mother  —  is  very  intuitive.  Oh," 
she  flung  in,  as  Lucille  gave  an  incredulous  start,  "I 
presume  you  don't  think  so.  Neither  of  you  girls 
has  the  slightest  conception  of  the  real  person  you 
have  fallen  in  to  the  habit  of  calling  'mother  ',  but  she 
has  intuition,  and  much  else  besides.  As  soon  as  she 
sees  how  Jim  feels,  she'll  adapt  her  ideas  to  his. 
That's  Ciceley 's  way." 

"She's  never  adapted  herself  enough  to  marry  him," 
stated  Lucille. 

Julia  was  for  a  moment,  as  Wick  would  have  said, 
"knocked  off  her  pins." 

"Oh,  well,"  she  cried,  laughing,  "you'll  admit  that 
an  adventure  like  marriage  scarcely  comes  under  the 
term  'adaptation.'  I'd  call  it  absorption,  or  even, 
in  an  extreme  case,  annihilation." 

Lucille  did  not  join  in  the  merriment.  For  an 
answer  she  shifted  her  pose,  so  that,  instead  of  her 
exquisite  profile,  her  whole  thoughtful  countenance 
was  set  towards  her  companion. 

Julia  stirred,  with  an  amused,  if  irritated  con 
sciousness  of  intrigue.  It  was  not  part  of  her 
design  to  submit  to  questioning  thus  early  in  the 
game.  She  marvelled  at  the  country  girl's  temerity 
in  daring  it. 

Lucille's  eyes,  clear,  steady,  and  appraising,  moved 
over  her  cousin's  face  with  the  touch  of  cold  finger 
tips,  and  came  back  to  the  now-guarded  eyes. 

"I  wonder,"  she  mused  reflectively,  "how  it  has 


242  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

happened  that  you  never  married  again,  Cousin 
Julia?" 

Julia  gave  a  light  gesture  of  dismissal.  "Some 
people,"  she  fenced,  "have  a  deep-rooted  prejudice 
against  second  marriages." 

"Not  people  with  your  intelligence,"  retorted 
Lucille.  "I  am  sure  that  you  get  —  that  you  take  — 
what  you  want.  It's  the  only  sensible  way.  There's 
something  you  are  after  right  now,  though  of  course 
I  cannot  guess  it  yet.  But  this  trip  to  New  York  —  " 
She  paused,  and  in  her  face  Julia  saw  a  gleam  as  of 
malice.  "This  trip  so  generously  offered  us  by  Uncle 
Jim  —  "  here  she  threw  in  the  fragment  of  a  laugh,  — 
"it  would  never  have  entered  his  head  from  now  until 
Doomsday.  You  are  doing  it  all." 

"Help!  Help!"  uttered  Julia  in  affected  alarm. 
She  leaned  forward,  sending  her  voice  straight  to  the 
ears  of  the  murmuring  pair  on  the  front  seat.  They 
turned  simultaneously;  Wick  for  an  instant  only, 
as  he  needed  his  attention  for  the  wheel,  but  Sylvia 
in  wide-eyed  arrested  surprise. 

"I'm  being  dissected,"  cried  Julia  to  her.  "I 
thought  I  had  just  a  nice  girl  in  the  car  here  beside 
me,  and  now  she  has  changed  to  a  Sibyl,  a  mind 
reader.  I  fear  for  my  reason.  What  do  you-all  do 
with  her,  Sylvia,  when  these  attacks  come  on?" 

"Nobody  ever  tries  to  do  anything  with  Lucille," 
confided  the  little  one,  dimpling.  "All  of  us  let  her 
alone." 

"But  how  can  I  let  her  alone  when  she's  chained 
by  my  side?  Thank  heaven,  here's  town.  Lucille, 
you  appalling  young  person,  use  your  X-rays  for  the 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  243 

shop  windows,  and  keep  them  well  turned  from  Cousin 
Julia,  or  I  will  not  answer  for  consequences." 

Lucille  submitted  with  smiling  complacency.  That 
she  relished  the  effect  just  produced  was  quite  evi 
dent.  Julia,  vibrating  beside  her,  had  the  uncom 
fortable  emotions  of  a  much-ruffled  hen,  whose 
feathers  refused  to  stay  down. 

In  the  hotel,  before  opening  of  trunks  and  the  dis 
closure  of  one  after  another  of  Julia's  marvellous 
possessions,  Lucille  cast  off  subtleties,  and  became 
equally  with  Sylvia  a  wondering,  exclamatory  young 
girl.  She  realized  that  the  clothes  she  had  longed  for, 
and  dreamed  of,  were  like  these.  None  of  her  fash 
ion  books  showed  them.  Something  hidden  and  fine 
in  her  whispered  that  they  were  not  mere  fashionable 
garments,  but  that  each  was  an  artist's  creation. 

To  the  question  in  her  bright,  uplifted  eyes,  Julia 
answered,  "Yes,  they  are  lovely.  I  know  it.  I  was 
pupil  to  one  of  the  greatest  of  modern  French  artists, 
just  to  learn  from  him  how  to  design  and  wear  clothes. 
He  believes  woman's  dressing  to  be  a  legitimate  part  of 
Fine  Art.  That  is  why  I  nearly  always  appear  better- 
looking  than  I  really  am,"  she  explained  frankly. 
"I  haven't  a  decent  physical  point  that  isn't 
enhanced,  nor  an  indecent  one  that  isn't  consciously 
remedied." 

"It  is  wonderful — won-derful!"  murmured  Lucille, 
and  from  her  enraptured  expression  one  of  her  listeners, 
at  least,  knew  she  was  thinking,  "If  my  good  points 
could  be  enhanced !" 

"Of  course,"  went  on  Julia,  as  she  flung  a  confection 
of  mauve  and  pale  green  to  the  bed,  "such  training 


244  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

brings  penalties.  It  is  torture  to  me  to  see  women  in 
blasphemous  gowns.  It's  a  crime  against  beauty. 
And  so  few  women  know.  It  has  got  to  be  a  sort  of 
passion  with  me,"  she  confessed,  her  eyes  sparkling, 
"to  mentally  undress  and  reclothe  all  the  women  I'm 
thrown  with." 

"Have  you  ever  done  it  to  me  and  Lucille?"  de 
manded  the  little  one,  with  such  charming  naivete 
that  Julia  laughed  out,  and  even  Lucille  flashed  an 
appreciative  smile. 

"Dress  you,  you  small  kitten!  Well,  rather! 
You  and  Lucille  both.  I  am  going  to  write  a  twenty- 
page  letter  to  New  York  this  very  evening,  and  all 
about  clothes  for  you  two.  Just  wait  till  you  get 
there !  Just  wait  —  "  here  she  paused,  as  one  holds 
a  gay  toy  out  of  reach  of  a  child,  "till  you  come  back 
to  dazzle  the  town !" 

"Oh,  oh!"  gurgled  Sylvia,  for  happiness.  "But 
what  about  mother?" 

"Oh,  mother,"  said  Julia,  deliberately  misunder 
standing,  "Wickford  and  I  are  going  to  be  so  nice  to 
her  she  won't  have  time  to  grieve." 

"I  didn't  mean  grieving,"  persisted  the  little  one. 
"Are  you  going  to  try  to  do  anything  about  mother's 
clothes?" 

Julia's  swift  side-glance  toward  Lucille  caught  the 
expected  sneer. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said  gently,  with  a  note  of  regret, 
"it's  almost  too  late  to  help  mother.  Besides,  as  you 
know,  it  will  make  her  much  happier  if  I  concentrate 
all  my  talents  on  you  girls." 

Lucille  made  no  comment,  but  her  look  showed 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  245 

relief.  Seeing  it,  Julia  stiffened,  and  said  something 
under  her  breath. 

Their  return  to  Little  Sunshine  found  the  aban 
doned  ones  sitting  in  Darby  and  Joan  contentment  in 
the  late  sunlight,  near  the  top  of  the  verandah  steps. 

While  Ciceley  went  up-stairs  with  her  daughters 
to  marvel  and  thrill  over  the  treasures  that  'Cousin 
Jule  had  lent  them',  Julia,  motioning  Wick  out  of 
ear  shot,  leaned  closer  to  Jim. 

"Is  Ciceley  quite  all  right?" 

"All  right!"  echoed  Jim,  with  what  seemed  to  his 
listener  deliberate  stupidity. 

"Yes,  goose.  All  right  about  letting  the  girls  take 
the  trip?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  now  answered,  as  if  pained 
and  astonished  that  she  thought  questioning  necessary. 
"You  don't  know  Sis  if  you  think  she'd  let  her  own 
feelings  hold  back  her  girls  from  their  fun.  She  only 
lives  for  her  children." 

Julia  gritted  her  teeth,  and  with  the  sound  inwardly 
erased  one  of  the  black  marks  against  Lucille.  Jim 
could  be  sometimes  maddeningly  dense  ! 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  "Come  on,  Wick,"  she 
cried  out.  "Let's  go  look  at  the  stable,  and  see  what 
it  needs  to  be  turned  into  an  up-to-date  garage." 

After  the  pleasant,  light  supper,  to  which  Jim  had 
been  persuaded  to  remain,  Julia  announced,  in  arising, 
that  she  must  go  back  to  town  almost  at  once. 

"Yes,  letters  again,"  she  explained  airily,  and  this 
time  gave  a  wink  at  Lucille.  "Long  letters,  and  all 
most  important.  I'll  declare,"  she  averred  in  pre 
tended  despair,  "I  am  sure  that  some  day  I  shall 


246  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

turn  to  a  typing-machine.  Do  I  use  one !"  she  flung 
back  to  Ciceley's  somewhat  startled  query.  "Why, 
I  play  on  the  sheets  in  my  sleep !  I  carry  a  type 
writer  round  with  me.  It's  a  lamb  of  a  folding  one, 
not  much  bigger  than  a  jewelry  case.  I'd  as  soon 
start  a  journey  minus  a  toothbrush !" 

The  young  people,  more  specially  Sylvia  and  Wick, 
now  gave  vocal  protest  against  having  their  evening 
cut  short. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  girls !"  cried  She  of  the  Hundred 
Resources,  "you  run  up-stairs  and  fetch  some  warm 
coats,  and  any  old  rug  you  can  find,  and  drive  in  with 
Wick  and  me.  He  will  bring  you  out  again.  I  don't 
want  him  round  when  I'm  writing.  Keep  him  out  here 
as  long  as  you  can  stand  it.  But,"  here  the  stern 
note  arrested  young  figures  already  poised  for  running, 
"let  it  be  understood  here  and  now  that  my  feeble 
intellect  is  not  a  stray  bone  for  any  one's  picking! 
Do  you  hear,  you  white  witch  ?  " 

"I  hear,"  laughed  Lucille,  "and  I  promise." 

All  events  having  taken  place  according  to  the 
strategist's  planning,  eight  o'clock  found  her  alone  in 
her  hotel  apartment,  orders  given  at  the  desk  that 
no  caller  or  telephone  rings  should  disturb  her,  the 
typewriter  opened  and  ready,  and  on  her  white  fore 
head  a  frown,  hinting  of  measured  thought. 

With  a  sudden,  decisive  gesture  she  stuck  in  the 
paper,  and  began.  The  keys  swung  into  a  merry 
clog-dance.  This  letter  evidently  held  no  pitfalls, 
no  problems.  Frequently  the  writer  smiled.  Once 
she  laughed  out.  When  finished,  she  slipped  it  into 
an  envelope  addressed  to  "Mrs.  George  Brandt." 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  247 

"Jennie's  going  to  be  pleased  to  the  bone,"  said  the 
writer  aloud.  "I  wish  I  could  go,  if  only  to  see  her 
face  when  she  first  catches  sight  of  Lucille." 

Two  very  short  missives  came  next.  One  was  to 
the  proprietor  and  manager  of  the  hotel  where  Jim 
was  to  stop,  the  other  to  a  New  York  dressmaker 
whose  name  conveyed  meaning,  even  along  the  Pa 
risian  Rue  de  la  Paix. 

With  the  fourth,  the  nerve-core  of  the  complex  was 
touched.  She  adjusted  the  paper,  wrote  out  the  full 
date,  and  then  started,  "My  very  dear  Mark." 
Then  she  stopped.  The  famous  rogation  of  Steven 
son,  "Only  show  me,  dear  Lord,  the  things  to  leave 
out.  I  can  manage  the  things  to  put  in,"  came  to 
her. 

She  rose  and  went  over  to  a  window.  It  is  instinc 
tive  in  those  who  have  a  room-pent  perplexity  to 
seek  the  appearance  of  space.  She  looked  out,  per 
ceiving  nothing. 

To  give  others  advice  —  honest  sympathy  —  her 
best  counsel  —  these  were  old  stories  to  Julia,  but 
never  before,  as  it  seemed  now  to  her,  had  she  dared 
to  play  puppet  with  souls. 

For  a  long  while  she  stood  in  deep  thought.  "The 
thing's  begun  now,"  finally  she  muttered.  "If 
you're  crossing  a  Rubicon,  especially  with  others 
in  tow,  you've  got  to  keep  on." 

And,  still  slowly,  but  with  an  increase  of  determina 
tion  at  each  nearing  step,  she  went  back  to  her  "lamb 
of  a  .typewriter." 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

THE  MELTING  OF  THE  ICE-MAIDEN 

LUCILLE  BERING  stood,  one  early  November  morn 
ing,  at  the  window  of  a  certain  New  York  hotel.  Out 
before  her  Central  Park  led  off  into  luminous  hillocks 
of  mist,  whether  tree  or  rounded  earth,  she  could  not 
determine,  for  all  swam  alike  in  a  shimmering  autumn- 
tinged  mist.  Directly  beneath  her  ran  the  great, 
bared  artery  of  life  called  Fifth  Avenue. 

In  New  York,  the  month  of  November  holds  to  no 
medium  grade.  Either  it  is  a  detestable  welter  of 
mud,  cold,  and  rain,  or  else,  as  now,  a  thing  of  sur 
passing  loveliness.  Not  even  in  her  far  Southern 
home  had  Lucille  seen  sunshine  more  golden;  but 
the  air  of  New  York,  unlike  that  of  her  wrapt,  tranquil 
Hill,  was  alive  with  myriad  small  bubbles  of  energy. 
She  had  read  in  novels  of  the  ''vital  and  inspiring 
atmosphere"  of  the  great  city.  Now  she  was  breath 
ing  it  in,  stirring  and  thrilling  to  its  influence,  was 
tantalized,  urged,  —  almost,  she  felt,  in  a  subtle,  mys 
terious  way,  being  re-created. 

For  the  girl  at  the  window  this  morning  seemed  to 
conserve  but  a  vague,  distant  kinship  in  spirit  to  the 
self-assured,  smiling  young  creature  who,  only  a  few 

248 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  249 

weeks  ago,  had  been  immanent  in  this  same  fair  flesh. 
The  change  had  commenced  at  her  hand-clasp  with 
Mark  Stanwood,  and  the  swift  look  of  wonder  and 
joy  in  his  eyes.  At  first  she  had  thought  it  merely  a 
component  part  of  excitement,  the  exhilaration  of 
being  at  last  in  New  York,  of  buying  new  clothes, 
meeting  charming  new  people,  and,  most  of  all,  of 
being  for  a  time  freed  from  the  dullness  of  home. 

There  was  scant  time  to  give  to  her  reveries. 
Jennie  Brandt,  as  a  chaperone  and  instigator  of 
"  parties,"  had  been  all  that  Julia  predicted,  and 
more.  Each  day  was  packed  close  with  adventures 
which  ran  over  the  edges  far  into  the  night. 

Jim,  boyishly  immune  from  the  urge  of  such  intro 
spection,  declared  buoyantly  that  he  was  having  "the 
time  of  his  life."  Little  Sylvia  was  equally  objective ; 
while  the  fourth  of  the  party,  Mark  Stanwood,  as 
courteous  and  perfect  in  manner  as  only  a  well-born 
Londoner  can  be,  showered  equal  attentions  on  all. 
His  advice  to  Jim,  at  the  tailor's,  was  invaluable. 
Mrs.  Brandt,  whose  one  fear  in  life  was  of  getting 
too  stout,  announced  herself  promptly  Mark's  victim. 
"I  can  go  back  to  butter  and  sweets  again,  now/' 
she  said  plaintively,  and  yet  with  a  leaven  of  hope. 
"I  have  heard  there  is  nothing  so  infallible  for  making 
one  thin  as  an  unrequited  passion.  And  what  chance 
have  I  got?"  she  demanded,  in  humorous  despair, 
"with  a  husband  who  loves  me  at  home,  and  two 
rivals  like  these,"  sending  glances  of  scathing  at  both 
girls,  "under  Mark's  nose  from  morning  till  mid 
night?" 

Within  a  few  days  she  began  to  show  interest  in 


250  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

which  one  of  her  rivals  would  win.  "Surely  one  of 
you  must,"  she  insisted.  "Mark's  too  frightfully 
good-looking  and  clever  to  send  back  to  England 
alone.  If  it  wasn't  for  George  — !" 

Her  tone,  always  chaffing,  always  bright  with  good 
will  and  impartial  attachment  to  her  fair  "borrowed" 
daughters,  began,  for  some  reason,  to  stir  secret  pangs 
in  Lucille. 

"Is  Cousin  Julia  behind  this,  too?"  she  wondered 
uneasily.  "But  what  part  of  her  plan  could  it 
serve?"  There  were  moments  when  Mrs.  Brandt's 
smile  held  an  edge. 

And  Mark  —  after  that  first  keen,  incredulous 
flash  of  delight  —  had  displayed  in  her  presence  no 
more  self-consciousness  than  Jim.  Flowers  came  to 
both  girls,  matched,  it  would  seem,  bud  by  bud. 
The  boxes  of  candy  were  sent  to  the  "  Misses  Bering." 

Lucille  found  herself  watching  with  breathless 
intensity  for  some  hint  of  preference,  a  longer  clasp 
of  the  hand  as  he  assisted  them  in  turn  from  a  taxi ; 
a  more  lingering  touch  to  the  evening  wrap  which  he 
folded  about  her  young  shoulders.  Even  at  times 
she  attempted,  —  and,  with  a  quiver  of  scorn,  self- 
acknowledged  the  effort,  —  to  compel  an  unveiling 
of  choice.  But  Mark,  as  if  warned,  kept  a  debon- 
naire  balance  between  them;  and  each  day  Lucille 
knew  deeper  thorns. 

Recently  the  desire  for  a  few  hours  of  solitude  had 
grown  to  a  physical  need.  She  must  be  alone  with 
these  new,  acid  thoughts.  She  must  face  them, 
adjust  herself  to  them,  win  her  way  through  the  forest 
of  doubts.  But  complete  isolation  was  not  easily 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  251 

compassed.  At  last,  in  despair,  she  fell  back  on  the 
immemorial  feminine  plea  of  sick  headache. 

A  trip  for  that  day  had  been  planned,  the  party  to 
leave  about  nine  o'clock.  There  was  luncheon  to  be 
taken  at  Tuxedo,  and  afterward  a  circuitous  motor- 
drive  home  along  a  justly  famed  country  road. 

About  eight,  the  girl  summoned  the  little  one,  and 
to  her,  with  moans,  lied  convincingly.  Sylvia, 
instantly  solicitous,  wished  to  remain,  but  the  sufferer, 
acquiring  a  martyr-like  tone  not  unlike  that  of  her 
mother,  said  that  all  she  needed  was  quiet  and  rest. 
A  morning  alone  in  her  room  and  some  bromide 
would  make  her,  as  Mark  said,  "quite  fit"  by  the 
time  that  the  others  returned. 

She  lay  on  the  bed  tense  and  watchful  through  closed 
lids,  to  see  that  her  plans  did  not  stray.  At  last  came 
the  telephone  announcing,  "Mrs.  Brandt  waited." 

Lucille  gave  a  long  sigh  of  relief,  followed  quickly 
by  the  sharp  cry,  "Oh,  don't  let  her  come  up  here, 
Sylvia.  She's  a  dear,  and  I  love  her,  of  course.  But 
sometimes  she's  dreadfully  vivid !  I'll  go  mad  if  you 
bring  her  up  now." 

As  the  door  closed  on  Sylvia,  the  figure,  a  moment 
before  prone  in  anguish,  sprang  up,  and  flinging  about 
its  shoulders  a  dressing-robe,  rushed  toward  the 
window.  She  could  see  by  a  down-tilting  glance 
from  one  side  the  edge  of  the  pavement  that  bordered 
the  hotel's  main  entrance. 

In  front  of  it,  blocking  all  others,  stood  the  Brandts' 
enormous  green  car.  The  chaffeur  and  liveried  foot 
man,  dressed  to  match,  held  dummy-like  postures 
in  front.  In  the  rear,  a  mass  of  bright  colored  veils 


252  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

and  potential  energies,  waited  impatiently  the  hostess. 
Now  she  threw  out  a  gay  hand  of  welcome.  The  foot 
man  sprang  down  as  though  she  possessed  him  on 
wires.  Little  Sylvia  was  tripping  toward  them. 

Close  behind  little  Sylvia  came  Mark.  "When  he 
moves,"  thought  the  watcher,  "all  the  other  men 
seem  stiff  and  common."  In  his  hands  the  Honorable 
Mark  bore  two  clusters  of  roses.  The  first,  a  deep 
crimson,  was  lifted  towards  Mrs.  Brandt.  The 
second,  of  delicate  pink,  he  now  offered,  with  a  bow 
of  exaggerated  homage,  to  Sylvia.  Swift  phrases  of 
merriment  flew  between.  The  long-lashed,  dark  eyes 
of  the  girl  dwelt  on  his.  Her  face,  now  all  smiles  and 
shy  dimples,  outmatched  her  roses  in  hue.  Mark  also 
was  laughing.  His  teeth  shone  white  as  he  helped  her 
small  figure  into  the  car.  Mrs.  Brandt  beamed  on 
both,  well  pleased.  Lucille,  without  knowing  it, 
took  a  sharp  breath. 

What  if,  already,  it  was  Sylvia  he  cared  for  ?  Sylvia 
was  only  a  child,  but  it  was  no  strange  happening  for 
a  man  of  mature  years  to  love  such  a  child.  There 
was  middle-aged  Mr.  Barnes  on  the  Hill.  It  had  nat 
urally  made  him  a  laughing  stock,  and  no  one  had 
laughed  quite  so  long  or  so  heartlessly  as  Sylvia. 
Yet  the  fact  still  remained  that  the  idiot  had  fallen 
in  love,  as  he  called  it,  with  Sylvia.  Then  too  there 
was  Wick,  and  some  others.  From  the  first  Wick 
had  been  devotee.  His  mother  had  seen  and  ap 
proved  it ;  and  Sylvia,  at  least  there  in  the  South,  had 
appeared  not  only  flattered,  but  gracious. 

This  reflection,  however,  brought  nothing  to  assuage. 
She  had  little  confidence  in  Sylvia's  sincerity.  All 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  253 

Southern  girls  of  that  type  were  born  flirts.  Lucille's 
lips  curled  at  the  thought.  Whatever  her  faults, 
this  tawdry  and  sometimes  most  cruel  indulgence  of 
cheap  personal  vanity  was  not  one  of  them. 

"Besides,"  she  reasoned,  and  through  the  swift 
current  of  thoughts  not  a  turn  of  the  hand  in  the  still- 
waiting  car  went  unnoticed,  "Wickford  is  almost  as 
much  of  a  child  as  Sylvia.  What  hope  of  success 
could  a  boy,  or  indeed  any  other  man  have,  should 
Mark  Stanwood  happen  to  care?" 

Jim  at  last  entered  the  car.  Mrs.  Brandt  evidently 
chaffed  him  for  tardiness.  Smartly  tailored,  now 
perfectly  hatted  and  shod,  Colonel  Jim  might  have 
passed  for  an  up-to-date  Metropolitan  clubman. 

Lucille  smiled,  but  the  smile  was  not  pleasant  to 
see.  Here  was  one  phase  of  Julia's  strategy  which 
from  the  first  had  been  patent.  Jim,  in  sudden 
despair  at  his  last  rejection,  had  confided  his  sorrows 
to  Julia.  She  was  trying  to  help  him  to  win.  So 
tame  an  affair  could  not  hold  the  girl's  interest  long. 
Whether  Jim  gained  his  long-sought-for  desire,  or 
whether  he  knew  final  defeat,  the  life  at  the  Hill 
would  proceed  just  the  same.  He  and  his  "Sis" 
would  jog  on,  side  by  side,  to  their  elderly  graves.  It 
all  seemed  dull,  tepid,  almost  a  farce. 

Now  the  car  blew  its  siren  for  starting.  Lucille 
pressed  her  face  to  the  pane.  Mark  suddenly  turned 
his  head  as  if  to  look  up,  at  which,  with  a  gasp,  she 
recoiled.  Had  he  seen  her  ?  And  if  so,  would  he  guess 
why  she  needed  to  stay  there  alone?  For  an  instant 
she  shut  her  eyes  close. 

When  she  dared  look  again,  the  great  car  was  gliding 


254  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

away,  smooth  and  silent  as  a  slender  canoe  in  deep 
waters.  She  strained  her  vision  until  it  faded  into 
golden  mists,  then,  returning  to  the  center  of  the 
room,  lifted  slowly  her  long  white  arms.  Here,  at 
last,  was  her  boon  of  a  day  which  no  one  need  share. 
There  was  much  to  deliberate.  She  must  think,  plan, 
determine,  adapt.  If,  as  her  instinct  assured  her, 
this  Machiavellian  scheme  had  dared  to  include 
arbitrarily  her  own  vital  tissues  of  character,  using  her 
soul,  as  it  were,  for  a  thumb  tack  to  hold  down  the 
edges  of  a  chart,  —  this  day's  ponderings  were  to  free 
her.  That  jeopardized  being,  the  Lucille  she  believed 
herself,  a  creature  wrought  slowly  and  consciously 
through  years  to  be  strong,  self-sufficing,  secure,  — 
she  must  arise  purged  and  strengthened  from  the  crux 
of  this  day's  fearless  percipience.  "  If  only,"  and  here 
the  golden  head  went  down,  "her  falling  in  love  with 
Mark  Stanwood  had  not  been  foreseen!"  This 
indeed  would  be  the  final  degradation. 

A  knock  came  at  the  door.  Her  pulse  quickened 
with  a  premonition  of  what  it  might  mean.  Again, 
in  a  vision,  she  saw  Mark  with  his  cluster  of  roses 
leaning  above  little  Sylvia.  He  had  never  yet  given 
flowers  to  one  and  neglected  the  other. 

She  sped  to  the  door.  Yes,  there  was  the  bell  boy, 
and  in  his  arms  a  long  florist's  box.  She  received  it 
composedly,  and  bidding  the  messenger  wait,  gave 
him  money.  Now,  locking  the  door,  after  sending 
down  word  to  the  office  that  on  no  account  was  she 
to  be  disturbed,  she  went  over  to  a  table,  and,  with  a 
clumsiness  born  of  unsteadied  nerves,  began  to  untie 
the  gold  cords. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  255 

Inside  the  box  lay  a  sheaf  of  white  roses,  —  long, 
perfect  buds,  each  worth  a  separate  scrutiny.  She 
pushed  them  aside  quite  unseeing,  in  her  quest  for  a 
hidden  card.  She  found  it  at  last,  in  its  small,  sealed 
envelope,  a  visiting  card,  with  Mark's  name.  The 
trembling  of  fingers  disclosed,  on  the  other  side,  a  few 
lines  written  in  pencil.  At  this,  all  her  breath  seemed 
to  stop.  It  was  what  she  had  hoped.  This  had  been 
Mark's  first  chance  of  addressing  her  solely. 

Some  queer,  unfamiliar  influence  held  her  back  from 
immediate  reading.  It  might  mean  so  much  —  and 

—  so  little !     She  sank  to  a  chair,  and,  after  a  few 
moments,  with  a  word  of  impatience  at  her  schoolgirl 
folly,  deliberately  raised  it,  and  read : 

"  Sorry !  Not  only  for  the  victim  but  for  ourselves. 
With  regrets,  and  hoping  that  by  evening  you  will 
be  quite  all  right,  M.  S." 

Her  lips  had  been  drawing  to  a  hard,  whitish  line. 
She  read  once  again,  and  then,  with  a  sound  that 
travestied  laughter,  flung  the  card  wide.  It  skimmed 
through  the  air  in  a  circle;  fluttered  an  instant  in 
poise  and  fell  into  her  lap.  Now  she  crushed  the 
frail  thing  into  angles  so  sharp  that  they  hurt  her 
soft  palm.  She  was  glad  of  the  pain. 

Mark's  words  might  have  been  written  to  Sylvia, 

—  for  the  matter  of  that,  to  Colonel  Jim.     There  was 
not  even  a  waver  of  sympathy  in  the  firm,  pencilled 
lines. 

She  crept  back  to  her  bed.  She  had  heard  some 
where  that  one  could  think  more  clearly  when  lying 
down.  Here  the  fictitious  headache,  as  if  lying  in 
wait,  clutched  her  temples.  And,  after  all,  what  was 


256  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

there  to  think?  Her  task,  more  objective,  more 
devastating,  was  merely  to  face  what  had  happened. 
She  had  entered  the  lists  of  reality,  decked  and  visored, 
to  find  that  her  armor  was  glass.  She,  Lucille  the 
fastidious,  the  unapproachable,  the  self-assured,  had 
fallen  in  love  like  a  gum-chewing  shopgirl  with  some 
Prince  of  the  " Movies";  and  that  with  a  man  who 
had  not  sought  her  love.  She  had  even  put  forth 
conscious  effort  to  win  him.  The  shame  of  this  fact 
scorched  her  brain.  No,  she  would  not  admit  that 
she  loved  him  !  She  was  not  of  the  sort  who  goes  mad. 
It  was  only  that  somehow,  from  that  first,  breathless 
instant  of  meeting,  he  had  seemed  to  be  part  of  her 
dreams.  There  were  doubtless  a  score  of  other  men 
quite  as  attractive.  If  this  one  were  foolish  enough 
to  prefer  an  infant  like  Sylvia,  it  proved  him  no  true 
mate  for  her. 

At  this  she  sat  up,  the  throbbing  head  lifted,  and 
summoned  her  "unconquerable  soul."  Then,  under 
the  proudly  drooped  eyelids,  stole  the  image  of  Sylvia 
looking  up  into  Mark's  face.  It  had  held  at  the 
moment  a  heart-catching  resemblance  to  the  mother 
-to  Ciceley  as  she  must  once  have  been.  "He  is 
cursed  with  fidelity,  poor  man !  It  is  only  to  see 
his  old  love  that  he's  on  his  way  to  America  now." 
The  memory  of  Julia's  words  worked  like  the  point 
of  a  blade.  Perhaps  here,  just  here,  lay  the  quivering 
core  of  Mark's  secret.  In  Sylvia  he  found  his  first 
love  renewed.  If  this  were  the  case,  she,  Lucille,  was 
indeed  irremediably  desolate.  No  mortal  could 
strive  against  phantoms. 

"Well,"  she  said  aloud  bitterly,  clutching  at  pride, 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  257 

"I  wanted  to  find  out  a  reason.  This  absurdity 
explains  every  point.  The  thing  for  me  now  is  to 
accept  it,  and  fling  off  my  own  silly  frenzy." 

For  a  few  moments  longer  she  fenced.  She  would 
still  be  herself,  would  repel  this  degrading  encroach 
ment.  Then,  in  the  next  moment,  with  a  cry  as  the 
walls  of  her  House  of  Life  seemed  to  fall,  she  threw 
herself  back  to  the  pillows,  and  gave  herself  over  to  the 
tempest.  Not  since  childhood  had  she  known  such 
tears.  Her  whole  slender  frame  rocked  and  writhed 
in  its  yielding  to  passion.  She  felt  it  a  strange,  untried 
luxury,  and  literally  revelled  in  grief. 

"It  is  true  !"  she  sobbed  out  in  an  ecstasy  of  abase 
ment.  "I  do  love  you,  Mark.  I  can  never  love  any 
one  else.  I  shall  go  to  my  grave  an  old  maid  ! " 

Like  Mark,  she  knew  herself  cursed  with  fidelity; 
but  agonizingly  unlike,  no  waiting  could  bring  her 
reward.  Later  on,  finding  that  the  paroxysms  had  a 
tendency  to  lessen,  she  began  goading  and  lashing 
her  imagination  with  pictures  of  tragedy  in  which  she 
played  the  chief  part.  Now  she  had  entered  a  con 
vent.  Her  vow  had  been  taken  until  death.  She 
saw  her  sad  face,  white  as  its  austere  setting,  and  a  new 
gush  of  tears  brought  relief. 

Next,  she  decided  to  go  in  for  trained  nursing, 
connected  perhaps  with  some  Settlement  work.  In 
her  novels,  girls  who,  like  her,  had  seen  happiness  die, 
went  as  instinctively  to  nursing  as  a  child  with  a  penny 
to  the  nearest  candy  shop. 

A  third  thought,  —  this  time  of  her  mother,  — 
came  with  such  swiftness  and  poignancy  that  every 
thing  else  was  blotted  out.  She  waved  it  aside, 


258  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

querulous  and  impatient.  A  vision  of  commonplace 
mothers  had  no  place  in  a  tragic  romance !  But  it 
held,  —  an  immovable,  radiant  silence.  Wherever  her 
mind  or  her  heart  strove  to  turn,  it  was  there  in  the 
pathway  before  them.  And  through  its  persistence,  at 
last  and  with  her  high  soul  quite  spent  in  the  conflict, 
the  girl  knew  a  second  and  more  tender  defeat. 

All  the  best  in  her  bruised  heart  came  out,  as  sweet- 
smelling  herbs  send  forth  fragrance  in  the  crushing. 
And  like  them,  with  the  hurt  came  the  power  of 
healing.  For  the  first  time  in  all  of  her  centered 
and  callous  young  life,  she  consciously  yearned 
toward  her  mother.  With  the  longing  she  knew  a 
dull  stir  of  regret.  A  thousand  neglects,  careless 
phrases,  requests  brushed  aside  for  their  seeming  in 
consequence,  hurried  in  from  the  past  to  accuse  her. 

Her  weeping  was  over.  These  last  thoughts  had 
steadied  and  calmed  her.  She  rose  from  the  bed, 
moving  precisely.  "This  is  the  thing  to  be  done  with 
my  life,"  she  said,  speaking  aloud.  "I  can  never  be 
happy  myself.  That  is  past.  But  I  can  and  I  will 
make  up  to  mother  for  what  I  should  have  been  to 
her  all  of  the  time." 

Already  she  knew  a  material  incentive.  She  ran 
to  the  desk,  drew  out  writing  materials,  and  impetu 
ously  dashed  off,  "My  dear  Mother."  Here  she 
paused,  nibbling  the  long  feather  on  the  quill.  She 
would  like  to  have  used  a  more  demonstrative  epithet ; 
but  after  a  moment  she  shook  her  blond  head  with 
the  thought,  "No,  I  must  go  at  things  slowly.  If  I 
said  'dearest'  now,  she  would  know  that  something 
in  me  had  changed." 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  259 

As  again  she  bent  to  the  page,  a  current  of  chill  air 
about  her  bare  ankles  reminded  her  that  she  had 
neither  bathed  nor  dressed.  She  went  through  these 
offices  perfunctorily,  her  mind  all  the  while  on  her 
letter. 

It  proved  one  of  many  pages.  She  recounted  their 
various  "frolics"  ;  enlarged,  —  not  without  conscious 
ness  of  a  certain  martyrdom,  —  on  Mark's  many 
attractions ;  made  light  of  the  personal  indisposition 
which,  as  she  said,  in  keeping  her  away  from  the  day's 
outing  had  given  an  opportunity  for  sending  at  last 
a  real  letter ;  and  at  the  close  she  allowed  momentary 
rein  to  her  new  impulse  by  saying,  "Now  I've  seen 
this  marvellous  New  York.  I  always  had  wished  to, 
and  would  not  have  missed  the  trip  for  worlds.  I 
am  more  grateful  to  Uncle  Jim  than  I  can  make  him 
believe.  It  sounds  queer  to  say,  but  somehow,  instead 
of  losing  myself  in  this  great  city,  I  seem  for  the  first 
time  to  have  found  myself.  The  whole  experience 
has  been  wonderful,  —  but,  now,  little  mother,  I 
want  to  come  back  to  you  and  to  Little  Sunshine." 

With  the  closing  and  sealing  of  this,  which  to  her 
was  the  initial  move  in  a  life's  dedication,  and  de 
spite  of  her  sense  of  deliverance,  a  strange,  physical 
faintness,  increasing,  it  seemed,  with  each  tick  of  the 
small  desk  clock,  became  so  intense  that  she  was 
forced  to  regard  it. 

At  the  moment  the  clock  rang  out  two.  Lucille 
laughed.  "What  an  idiot  I  am,"  she  exclaimed. 
"No  breakfast  and  still  no  lunch.  No  wonder  I 
feel  like  a  shell." 

She  rang  for  a  waiter,  and  giving  some  thought  to 


260  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

selection,  ordered  a  meal  to  her  room.  After  eating, 
her  energy  rushed  back  with  such  force  that  upon 
its  swift  tide  all  her  recent  emotional  pangs  threatened 
return.  She  flew  for  her  coat  and  hat.  A  long  walk 
in  the  Park  would  be  best  to  repel  the  unbearable 
renascence. 

As  she  swung  to  her  wrist  the  smart  shopping-bag, 
a  new  and  arresting  thought  made  her  eyes  bright. 
She  would  first  buy  her  mother  a  present.  On  the 
pavement,  where  she  needed  to  thread  a  jostled  way 
to  the  outer  half  in  order  to  join  the  current  of  south 
erly-moving  humanity,  her  white  brow  was  still 
knitted  in  perplexity  as  to  what  she  should  buy.  It 
came  to  her  now,  with  compunction,  that  never  since 
childhood  had  she  gone  forth  like  this  with  the  object 
of  selecting  an  individual  gift  for  her  mother.  The 
stereotyped  Christmas  and  birthday  ones  took  inva 
riably  the  form  of  a  new  dish  or  ornament  for  use  in 
the  home.  It  was  true  that  Ciceley  desired  it. 
There  were  so  very  few  things,  she  averred,  that  she, 
in  herself,  actually  needed. 

But  this  time,  said  the  girl  to  herself,  answering 
the  remembered  words,  "It  is  going  to  be  a  present 
for  mother,  and  not  for  the  house." 

But  what  to  select?  Even  Mark  and  her  own 
blighted  hopes  knew  eclipse.  The  inevitable,  and 
usually  exhilarating  looks  of  delight,  of  instinctive, 
spontaneous  admiration  flashed  toward  her  during  all 
such  walks  on  The  Avenue,  —  for  the  true  New 
Yorker  there  is  but  one,  —  and  which  heretofore  had 
been  culled  as  a  child  gathers  flowers,  bloomed  through 
this  stress  and  vanished,  entirely  unnoticed. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  261 

She  turned  in  to  the  first  great  "Emporium." 
Laces,  ribbons,  long  counters  of  glittering  personal 
ornaments  were  swept  by  a  negative  glance.  At  a 
fluttering  display  of  handkerchiefs,  she  stopped  short. 
Handkerchiefs  were  proverbially  acceptable.  "They 
are  no  use  here,"  she  reflected,  with  wisdom.  "If  I 
got  her  the  sheer  hand-worked  ones  I  certainly  should, 
she  never  would  keep  them.  In  a  very  few  days 
Sylvia  and  I  would  be  finding  them  in  our  top  bureau 
drawers." 

It  was  not  until  her  arrival  at  a  section  redolent  of 
joss-sticks,  and  alluringly  termed  Oriental,  that 
inspiration  came.  There  were  shawls  of  all  sizes 
and  colors,  fringed  and  embroidered  shawls ;  shawls 
just  tossed  off  from  the  shoulders  of  Carmen ;  black 
shawls  for  huddled  old  age.  Between  these  two  latter 
extremes,  she  fixed  on  a  gray  one,  with  a  sheen  that 
recalled  Cousin  Julia's  beautiful  hair.  Before  leaving 
the  counter  she  purchased  a  second,  much  cheaper, 
but  making  up  in  reverberant  hues  what  it  lacked 
in  textile  requirements.  That  was  for  Mammy,  — 
not  only  a  home-coming  gift,  but  a  peace-offering. 
With  spirits  and  pocketbook  each  considerably  light 
ened,  Lucille  emerged,  shouldering  herself  into  the 
endless  chain  of  pedestrianism.  She  now  chose  that 
half  of  the  pavement  that  led  northward.  Soon  her 
familiar  hotel  entrance  was  passed,  and  from  this  she 
could  make  a  diagonal  crossing  directly  into  the  sun- 
steeped  Park. 

There  was  here  no  timepiece  but  the  lengthening 
of  shadows.  Her  swift  motion,  —  the  buoyant, 
rhythmic  steps,  —  were  already  bringing  healing. 


262  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

When  she  came  back  in  thought  to  the  material 
present,  she  was  quite  close  to  the  Northern  Park 
limit.  Realizing  that  her  hotel  must  be  miles 
away,  she  decided  to  return  by  a  Fifth  Avenue 
omnibus. 

She  climbed  to  the  top  of  one  of  these  lurchy  and 
ponderous  vehicles,  and  congratulated  herself  on 
securing  a  front  seat.  This  satisfaction,  however,  had 
but  a  brief  existence.  Each  forward  jerk  plunged 
them  more  deeply  into  the  congestion  of  late  afternoon 
traffic.  They  made  one  of  a  long  line  of  cars,  vans, 
and  equipages.  Their  progress  became  a  mere  series  of 
starts,  followed,  after  a  few  grating  inches  of  advance, 
by  an  irritating  and  gasoline-tinctured  quiescence. 

It  was  well  after  dark  when  she  reached  her  own 
room.  Sylvia,  half  dressed,  and  evidently  nearly 
distracted  with  apprehension,  rushed  in  to  question 
her.  With  the  instinct  of  visual  foreboding,  derived 
surely  from  the  anxious  small  mother  at  home,  she 
had  been  picturing  her  sister  as  prone  in  some  doctor's 
office,  or  hospital.  She  had  not  alarmed  Uncle  Jim 
yet,  so  she  said,  but  had  waited,  hoping  with  every 
moment  — 

"Well,  you  see  that  I'm  safe,"  smiled  Lucille. 
"What  are  our  plans  for  the  evening?" 

These  proved  to  include  dinner  at  the  Brandts'  and 
a  "first  night"  afterward.  Because  of  the  theater, 
dinner  would  be  early,  at  seven.  The  car  was  to  be 
sent  at  a  quarter  before.  "I'm  getting  dressed 
now,"  volunteered  Sylvia.  "I'm  going  to  wear  my 
new  pink  one,  with  the  wreath  of  pink  roses.  You'd 
better  begin,  too.  It's  late." 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  263 

"It  won't  take  me  long,"  said  Lucille,  in  a  voice 
that  held  so  little  interest  that  her  sister  involuntarily 
looked  up.  "Oh,  my  head  is  entirely  well,"  she 
vouchsafed  to  the  look.  "It's  only  that  I  don't  feel 
particularly  '  flossy '  to-night.  I'm  —  '  she  paused, 
and  her  eyes  set  on  Sylvia's.  "I  am  homesick !"  she 
cried.  "Aren't  you?" 

By  this  they  both  stood  in  the  doorway  which 
connected  the  two  rooms.  To  the  abrupt,  startling 
question,  little  Sylvia  at  first  merely  gasped.  Then 
her  brown  eyes  began  to  glow.  Before  she  could 
speak,  Lucille,  with  a  curt  and  dismissing  gesture, 
pushed  her  away,  and  shut  the  door  close. 

Youth  is  nothing  if  not  dramatic.  Lucille,  for 
this  evening,  instinctively  dressed  her  new  part. 
Her  gown  was  of  white,  —  filmy  layers  of  straight- 
hanging  net  over  ivory  silk.  The  neck,  low  and 
round,  and  the  sleeves  puffed  in  Kate  Greenaway 
fashion,  gave  her  young  throat  and  arms  an  appealing, 
almost  a  childish  beauty.  She  wore  neither  jewels  nor 
ornaments.  Conventional,  long  gloves  were  dis 
carded.  The  golden  wonder  of  her  hair  had  been 
caught  by  a  few  amber  pins  to  a  loose-hanging  coil  at 
the  back  of  her  neck.  Gazing  in  a  sort  of  plaintive 
admiration  at  her  own  lovely  image,  she  heroically 
forebore  the  usual  touch  of  powder  upon  her  nose. 
Such  vanities  belonged  to  a  phase  of  her  life  already 
relinquished. 

After  a  moment  of  hesitation,  and  with  a  gesture 
that  deprecated  the  vanity,  she  went  to  Mark's  roses, 
selected  a  few  perfect  buds,  and  pinned  them  upon  her 
breast.  Now,  indeed,  she  was  ready.  Sylvia,  knock- 


264  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

ing  rather  timidly,  informed  her  in  a  whisper  that  the 
car  waited.  The  elder  girl  caught  up  a  scarf  of  white 
tulle,  drawing  it  carelessly  about  head,  throat,  and 
shoulders.  As  she  opened  the  door,  the  little  one 
caught  her  breath.  "  Wha  —  what,"  she  stammered, 
"is  the  matter  with  you,  Lucille  ?  You  look  so  —  so 
—  different !"  Then  with  a  cry  of  delight,  "But  you 
never  were  prettier  in  all  your  life !  When  do  you 
think  Uncle  Jim  will  let  us  start  home?" 

"To-morrow,  I  hope.  Don't  you  hint  of  it,  Sylvia, 
to  either  Uncle  Jim  or  Mark.  I  want  to  spring  it  on 
them  suddenly.  Are  they  both  in  the  sitting  room?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  palpitated  the  little  one.  "I  heard 
Uncle  Jim  letting  Mark  in.  Are  you  going  to  speak 
of  it  now?" 

Lucille  nodded,  then  swept,  a  vision  of  snow  and 
spring  flowers,  into  the  presence  of  the  two  men. 
Both  were  standing.  In  her  guarded  excitement  she 
did  not  realize  that  each  gave  an  impetuous  start; 
or  that  into  Mark's  eyes  had  flashed  once  again  the 
coveted  echo  of  rapture.  Her  intent  was  just  now 
all  for  Jim. 

She  moved  straight  up  to  him,  at  which  he,  — 
always  vaguely  disturbed  in  her  presence,  —  fell 
back  a  few  steps. 

"Uncle  Jim,"  said  the  crystalline  voice,  "this  trip 
you  have  given  us  has  proved  the  most  wonderful 
thing  in  my  life.  I  shall  never,  never  forget  all  your 
kindness.  I  appreciate  every  minute  of  my  stay  in 
New  York,  and  all  of  the  lovely  things  you  have 
bought  us  —  but  now  -  '  her  voice  lowered  to  a 
musical  thrill,  "there's  just  one  thing  more." 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  265 

"Fire  ahead!"  cried  the  Colonel,  with  a  somewhat 
unsuccessful  attempt  at  heartiness.  "A  new  hat,  or 
some  gew-gaw,  I'll  bet!  You  could  have  the  whole 
town,  if  my  saying  so  would  give  it.  Only  remember 
that  I'm  a  fake,  not  a  real,  millionaire." 

"No  millions  could  buy  what  I  want  —  what  we 
want,"  she  corrected,  and  reached  out  an  arm  for 
pink  Sylvia.  "We  are  homesick,"  she  said,  with  a 
break  in  the  exquisite  voice.  "We  want  to  go  back." 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

THE  RETURN 

THE  three  stated  weeks  of  Jim's  absence  were 
nearing  their  close.  For  the  first  two,  the  conspira 
tors,  mother  and  son,  left  behind,  plied  vigorous  and 
remediable  wills  without  hindrance.  No  phase  of 
their  planning  went  wrong.  From  the  weather, 
which  continued  its  Indian  summer  tranquillity  to  the 
humblest  "Jack-leg"  negro  carpenter  engaged  in 
nailing  new  boards  to  the  fence,  all  elements  of  recon 
struction  moved  as  in  magic  accord.  Little  Sunshine, 
with  snowy  white  columns,  and  lawns  rolled  to  silver- 
green  plush,  appeared  a  fit  candidate  for  "postcard" 
publicity. 

But  Julia  had  once  heard  a  business  friend  say, 
"When  there's  nothing  to  worry  you,  —  then,  look 
out ! "  She  confided  to  Wick  her  belief  that  it  was 
too  good  to  last.  Nemesis  surely  was  crouching. 
And  then  Nemesis  came.  In  her  lean,  trembling 
hand,  was  a  telegram. 

"Sick  of  this  hole  girls  want  to  come  home  start 
to-morrow,  arriving  Thursday  one  P.M.  Jim." 

Julia  stood  very  still  to  watch  Ciceley  read.  Her 
eyes  could  not  leave  the  terse  message.  Apparently 

266 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  267 

she  spelled  out  each  word.  Her  face  slowly  became 
a  surface  of  shifting  emotions.  Red  crept  into  her 
cheeks.  Her  form,  her  whole  poise,  subtly  changed. 
Julia,  seeing  it  all,  felt  her  heart  sink.  If  a  mere 
written  wire  could  engender  disintegration,  what 
hope  could  there  be  of  stability,  when  the  sender  — 
or  senders  —  appeared  ? 

After  a  long  pause  the  engrossed  one,  recollecting 
herself  with  an  effort,  held  out  the  paper  to  her 
cousin.  Julia  glanced  through  it.  Her  eyes  had  the 
stroke  of  an  editor's  blue  pencil.  Ciceley,  with 
clasped  hands,  and  happy  lips  parted,  awaited  her 
comment. 

"Wick  and  I,"  announced  Julia,  with  banal  dis 
regard  of  the  expected,  and  folding  the  telegram  into 
its  former  neat  lines,  "must  start  into  town  rather 
earlier  than  usual,  this  evening."  (Already  she  had 
fallen  back  into  the  southern  way  of  referring  to  after 
noon  hours  as  "evening.")  "There  are  some  pack 
ages  from  New  York  waiting  to  be  called  for  at  the 
express  office.  And  didn't  you  have  a  last  fitting  at 
Madame  Provost's?" 

Ciceley,  bewildered  at  first,  gave  a  quick  frown. 
"How  can  you  expect  me  to  think  about  dressmakers, 
with  this?"  she  demanded,  and,  reaching  up,  caught 
back  her  precious  telegram,  holding  it  jealously 
against  her  breast.  "Why,  didn't  you  read?  They 
are  coming !  Day  after  to-morrow,  they'll  be  home. 
My  girls  -  The  first  time  in  their  lives  —  And 
you,"  she  broke  out,  "are  standing  there  as  uncon 
cerned  as  if  nothing  at  all  had  happened !" 

"I  chance  to  be  thinking,"  said  Julia,  her  eyes,  like 


268  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

her  voice,  cool  and  steady,  "of  the  things  that  may 
happen  —  or  may  not  —  after  they  come.  Already 
your  purpose  is  wavering.  I  am  beginning  to  fear 
you  may  slump  back  in  one  minute  at  sight  of  them, 
to  the  same  spineless  jellyfish." 

"Why,  Jule  —  what  on  earth—?" 

"You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean !"  cried  the 
other.  "  Oh,  Sis,  try  with  all  your  might  to  remember 
that  you  mustn't  slump  now.  It's  for  their  sakes, 
not  yours.  Be  the  thoroughbred  I've  come  to  believe 
that  you  are.  Play  the  square  deal  with  me.  Keep 
your  promises!" 

"I  intend  to  keep  all  of  my  ridiculous  promises," 
declared  Ciceley,  with  a  good  show  of  spirit.  "Didn't 
I  give  you  my  word?  But  just  now,  I  want  to  get 
used  to  the  thought  of  their  coming  so  soon.  I  haven't 
really  caught  my  breath,  yet.  I  won't  go  to  the 
dressmaker.  I  intend  to  stay  here  by  myself.  You 
needn't  try  to  bully  me  now ! " 

Julia  went  forth  in  search  of  her  boy.  After  some 
desultory  wandering,  she  traced  him  to  what  had  been 
known  for  years  as  the  old,  deserted  "stable."  In 
the  North  or  the  West  it  would  have  been  called  a 
"barn."  The  huge,  ramshackle  edifice,  a  mere  shell 
when  Julia  and  Wick  had  essayed  its  restoration, 
stood  now  as  an  up-to-date  garage.  The  main  room 
had  been  given  a  curved  floor  of  cement.  It  was  here 
she  found  Wick,  in  blackened  and  oily  condition, 
"going  over"  more  for  the  fun  than  from  any  neces 
sity,  the  machinery  of  their  new  car. 

Julia  without  speaking  leaned  rather  disconso 
lately  against  a  long  carpenter's  bench. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  269 

Wick  turned  to  her,  black  hands  held  wide  to  avoid 
self-contamination.  "Well?"  he  enquired,  with  a 
quizzical  smile.  He  had  known  on  the  instant  that 
some  quirk  in  more  vital  machinery  had  caused  the 
unusual  droop. 

"A  wire  has  just  come  from  Jim.  They  will  all 
be  here  Thursday,  at  noon!" 

"Jove!  That's  good  news !  But  you're  not  dart 
ing  radium,  my  mother.  What's  wrong?" 

"It's  Sis.  Sis  I  The  darned  little  fool ! "  cried  out 
Julia,  and  immediately  felt  great  relief.  "Of  course," 
she  went  on,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  finds  in  mere 
speech  an  assuagement,  "from  the  first  I  have  dis 
counted  the  probability  of  these  sentimental  back- 
slidings.  The  wonder  is  that  there  haven't  been 
more.  I  know,  in  my  brain,  that  this  is  probably 
only  temporary.  It's  got  to  be,  Wick !  Even  you 
don't  know  how  I've  worked  on  that  idiot !  Some 
how,  just  now,  as  I  studied  her  face  while  she  read 
the  wire,  her  fatuous,  adoring  expression  turned  me 
cold.  She  seemed  to  be  desiccating  under  my  eyes,  - 
to  be  crumbling  into  sugar.  A  little  more  rapture, 
and  she  would  have  melted  to  treacle,  and  the  need 
of  a  floor-mop.  I  felt  like  a  sculptor  who  thinks  he's 
been  chiselling  marble,  and  wakes  up  to  find  it  soft 
chalk." 

"Now  never  you  mind,  chum,"  soothed  Wickford, 
beginning  to  clean  off  the  worst  dirt  on  a  handful  of 
waste.  "Just  buck  up  for  the  finish.  Cousin  Sis 
is  all  right.  You'll  find  her  a  sport  at  the  pinch.  Let 
the  treacle  run  now.  There'll  be  less  of  it  leaking 
about  when  the  real  time  comes." 


270  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

During  the  first  of  this  sapient  allocution,  Julia's 
frown  of  perplexity  remained.  At  its  close,  her  head 
went  up  with  new  courage. 

"I  like  you,"  she  solemnly  stated,  her  gray  eyes 
shining  with  fun.  "I  approve  of  you  highly.  Al 
ready  I  am  pumped  full  of  ozone  anew.  Now  what 
do  you  say  to  a  spin  in  the  car, — just  the  two  of  us. 
To  a  speed,  using  up  our  full  limit,  and  leaving  these 
staid  country  roads  fringed  with  dead  chickens?" 

"Suits  me!"  laughed  the  boy.  "When  little 
Cousin  Sis  is  along,  I  feel  as  if  I  straddled  the  neck 
of  a  tortoise.  We'll  both  wear  our  speed-goggles. 
Go  tie  on  your  hair  while  I  wash." 

Their  ride  of  Walpurgis  lasted  until  nearly  dark. 
Returned,  they  knew  still  further  satisfaction  in 
seeing  that  the  absence  had  been  equally  beneficial 
at  home.  Ciceley  declared  herself  —  and  her  looks 
bore  out  the  assertion,  —  once  more  serene.  With 
Wick  standing  near  for  a  witness,  she  went  up  to 
Julia,  and  said,  "Don't  be  worried,  dear  Jule,  for 
fear  I  am  going  to  fail  you.  You  have  been 
too  wonderfully  good  to  us  all.  I  have  promised. 
I  am  going  to  do  just  exactly  what  we  have 
planned." 

Next  day,  with  the  arrival  of  Lucille's  long  letter, 
and  those  mysterious  and  somehow  most  suggestive 
words  at  its  close,  the  starry-eyed  mother  suffered 
symptoms  of  a  new  "saccharine  degeneration." 
But  Wick  played  up  nobly  just  here.  Between  them, 
he  and  Julia  again  set  the  wanderer's  feet  in  the  path 
way. 

On  the  third  forenoon,  —  the  start  of  the  actual 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  271 

day  when  her  idols  were  to  be  restored,  —  Ciceley 
threatened  to  run  amuck.  Julia,  escaping  from 
torture,  hurled  herself  upon  Wick,  demanding  to 
be  told  whether  or  not  her  head  had  turned  per 
fectly  white. 

"I  can  do  nothing  with  her!"  wailed  Julia.  "Did 
you  ever  try  catching  one  of  those  small,  up-and-down 
moths  in  your  hands  ?  I  feel  like  a  man  in  a  zoo,  put 
in  charge  of  a  new,  scientifically  important  find,  — 
some  shy,  shivering  creature,  that  may,  any  time, 
give  up  its  ghost.  Ciceley  now  is  demanding  in 
frenzy  the  return  of  all  her  old  clothes.  She  says 
they  will  think  her  a  madwoman,  a  Mardi  Gras 
masker  gone  wrong  —  that  neither  Jim  nor  the  girls 
will  acknowledge  her." 

"And  how  about  Mark?  "  grinned  the  boy. 

Julia's  gesture  betokened  despair.  "Don't  joke. 
She's  forgotten  Mark  lives!" 

"But  just  think  of  it,  Wick,"  she  insisted,  as  though 
the  fact  was  too  loathsome  to  hold  all  alone.  "Those 
odious,  revolting  old  clothes !  You  remember  how 
her  skirts  used  to  hang?  And  now  she  is  losing  her 
mind,  —  or  says  that  she  is,  —  because  I  won't  give 
them  back." 

"Well,"  deliberated  the  boy,  his  eyes  dancing, 
"if  it's  a  question  between  restoring  a  few  dingy 
rags,  or  having  her  turn  to  a  lunatic,  don't  you  think 
you  had  better  relent?" 

Julia  shot  him  a  glance  meant  to  pierce.  "For 
one  slight  objection,  they  happen  to  be  at  this  moment 
adorning  "  (the  word  sizzled  forth  like  hot  vinegar) 
"the  backs  of  old  women  in  Sand  Town.  That  is 


272  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

where  they  belong.  For  another  — "  she  stopped,  not 
trusting  her  voice. 

Wick,  an  arrow  of  tender  remorse,  flew  to  her. 
"Don't  worry,  you  dear.  I  was  a  cad  and  a  beast 
to  try  ragging  you  just  at  a  crisis.  But  my  own 
brain  is  doing  queer  things.  I  seem,  all  on  top,  to 
be  lit  with  a  sort  of  Alpine  glow.  If  Cousin  Ciceley's 
old  clothes  are  forfeit,  it  is  sure  she's  got  to  wear  new 
ones.  You  know  Cousin  Sis  isn't  likely  to  start  off 
without  any !  Cheer  up,  now,  old  sport,"  he  adjured, 
shaking  her  playfully,  "The  worst  —  as  they  say 
over  here  —  is  yet  to  come.  No,  your  hair  isn't 
white.  It's  blue-silver,  the  prettiest  hair  in  the 
world.  Now  trot  back  to  your  victim,  and  remember, 
while  dolling  her  up,  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that 
I  want  you  to  look  just  as  smart.  You  know  I'm  a 
regular  peacock  for  pride  when  it  comes  to  this 
Mother  o'  Mine." 

Julia  kissed  him,  and  tried  hard  to  smile.  Had 
the  arch-strategist  been  just  a  little  less  keenly  and 
vitally  involved,  all  her  reading  of  Freud  and  other 
advanced  psychologists  would  have  found,  in  this 
duel  with  Ciceley,  juicy  meat.  As  it  was,  appre 
hension  destroyed  mental  appetite.  Her  one  thought 
at  this  juncture,  was  "Lord,  how  long?" 

As  the  time  to  begin  dressing  neared,  Ciceley 
reminded  her  more  than  ever  of  a  small  entrapped 
animal  at  bay.  When  at  last  convinced  that  her 
tyrant,  —  or,  more  justly,  her  tyrants,  —  for 
Mammy  and  Wick  were  both  shamelessly  adjuvant, 
had  neglected  no  turn  of  their  plot  to  force  her  into 
wearing  the  now-hateful,  "absurd"  recent  clothes, 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  273 

she  wheeled  from  them  all,  white  with  anger,  and 
went  with  firm  steps  to  her  room. 

On  her  bed  lay  the  pre-arranged  costume,  — 
scented,  shimmering,  and  exquisite.  Even  the  hat 
pins  and  veil  were  in  place.  Almost  she  thought  she 
could  see  Julia's  deft  hand  hovering  over  them.  But 
that  hand,  at  the  instant,  began  a  tattoo  on  the  door. 
Ciceley  shut  her  teeth  hard,  and  stood  silent. 

"Sis,  Ciceley!  I  know  you  are  in  there.  I'm 
coming." 

The  handle  squeaked  once,  the  door-panel  rattled, 
but  the  rusty  old  bolt  was  in  place.  The  figure  within 
did  not  move.  She  felt  like  a  totem-pole  carved 
with  shrieking,  yet  silent,  grotesques. 

"It's  beyond  her  powers  to  turn  into  exactly  the 
same  scarecrow  she  was,"  moaned  the  ostracized 
one  at  the  door.  "She'll  chuck  powder  and  paint, 
as  a  matter  of  course.  She  may  even  put  soap  on 
her  hair.  But  that  gown  and  the  hat  —  "  here  the 
pride  of  the  artist  gleamed  wanly  —  "she  can't  mu 
tilate  them.  She  won't  dare,  since  they  are  mine. 
They  will  save  us  ! " 

Now  her  own  toilet  needed  attention.  Heedful  of 
Wick's  last  monition,  she  made  her  selection  with 
care.  But  along  with  the  personal  motive,  she  was 
canny  in  choosing  just  those  colors  which  would  best 
enhance  and  supplement  Ciceley. 

"Yes,  you'll  do.  You  look  quite  all  right,  Mrs. 
Preston,"  she  remarked  aloud,  with  a  final  quick  nod 
in  the  mirror.  "But  Ciceley!  Oh,  Ciceley!  If  I 
only  felt  surer  of  you  !" 

She  hurried  down  for  the  comfort  of  being  near 


274  THE  STIRRUP  LATCH 

Wick,  and  encountered  him  sitting  at  ease  on  the 
gallery.  The  car,  shining  in  all  its  length  like  new- 
polished  glass,  stood  ready  to  start. 

At  the  sound  of  approaching,  swift  feet,  Wickford 
rose  to  his  own.  In  his  buttonhole  glowed  one  small, 
pink  rosebud.  It  looked  strangely  like  Sylvia. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  he  exclaimed,  his  mouth  spreading. 
"You're  some  girl  all  right!  Even  if  Cousin  Sis 
balks—" 

"Hush!  Hush!"  cried  the  other  in  warning. 
"She  is  coming!  Oh,  Wick,  shall  I  live  through 
this  day?" 

Little  Ciceley  swept  out.  Whether  paint  or  de 
spair,  some  magician  had  touched  both  her  cheeks 
with  bright  carmine.  The  white  gloves,  her  gown, 
her  smart  wrap,  even  the  slight  rakish  tilt  of  the  hat, 
were  perfection.  "Good  heavens!"  thought  Julia, 
and  then  with  a  grin,  well  concealed,  of  pure  fun, 
"Sis  was  mad  when  she  knocked  that  adorable  hat 
over  one  ear !" 

Wick,  rejoiced  as  his  mother,  and  wise  for  his  years, 
made  no  comment.  In  strained  silence  all  three 
moved  down  the  steps.  Ciceley  reached  the  car 
first,  and  was  assisted,  perhaps  with  a  shade  too 
much  deference,  by  the  boy.  He  felt  that  she  sent 
him  a  glance.  She  sat  all  alone  in  the  back.  The 
space  called  for  five  passengers.  Of  people  her  size 
it  might  hold  at  least  nine ;  but  Julia,  hastily  taking 
her  place  in  the  seat  by  the  driver,  felt  that  her  cousin, 
plus  all  of  her  pent-up  emotions,  had  no  more  room 
than  vibrations  could  fill.  As  they  sped  into  town, 
each  subtly  soothed  and  relaxed  by  swift  motion,  no 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  275 

banal  attempt  at  mere  pleasantry  was  made.  The 
climax  was  "on",  and  all  knew  it. 

When  in  sight  of  the  station,  stung  to  speech,  per 
haps  by  the  faint  acrid  smell  of  train  smoke,  Julia 
leaned  to  Wick's  ear,  and  whispered,  "I  count  on 
your  help  to  win  through.  Remember,  your  chief 
charge  is  Sylvia.  I  can  count  on  the  pride  of  the 
other.  You  must  reach  Sylvia  at  once.  Prevent  her 
from  speaking,  or  even  looking  surprise.  I  don't 
want  Mark  to  guess,  —  at  least,  not  at  first.  As 
for  Jim  -  This  in  answer  to  his  muttered  ques 
tion,  "Well,  God's  got  to  help  us  with  Jim !" 

The  train  was  on  time.  A  few  moments  later  it 
came  puffing  in.  Then,  by  some  incomprehensible 
miracle,  —  the  details  of  which  Julia  could  never 
quite  clearly  recall,  —  the  whole  crisis  was  over. 
The  seven  had  met.  They  were  talking.  And  still 
the  world  rolled  as  it  should,  still  the  pavement  lay 
flat,  and  the  sun  did  not  flicker  an  eyelash. 

She  retained,  through  the  maze,  a  vague  image  of 
Wickford  rushing  from  them,  a  small  fluttering 
figure  in  veils  held  by  the  arm.  She  remembered 
one  look  on  Jim's  face.  Something  rose  in  her  throat, 
and  then  everything  blurred  worse  than  ever.  It  was 
Lucille,  smiling,  calm,  and  unnaturally  lovely,  who 
first  caught  her  hands,  and,  with  the  touch,  dragged 
her  back  into  partial  composure.  After  this,  they 
were  all  in  the  car.  They  had  started  toward  Little 
Sunshine.  With  the  chill  autumn  breath  in  her 
nostrils,  and  her  boy  exuding  pure  rapture  by  her 
side,  and  whispering  tenderly,  "Buck  up,  Mater 
mine.  It's  all  over.  It  went  smooth  as  an  eel 


276  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

swimming  in  oil !    You  can't  show  the  white  feather 
now !"  the  real  Julia  came  back,  chin  in  air. 

She  drew  a  long  breath  of  reviving.  "Yes,  it  did 
go  all  right,"  she  told  herself  proudly.  "I  could 
hardly  have  hoped  for  such  perfection.  Little  Sis 
was  a  wonder !  The  bunch  is  all  there,  just  behind 
me,  laughing  and  chatting  as  easily  as  if  at  an  after 
noon  tea.  I've  got  everything  now  as  I  want  it. 
But,  Oh,"  here  the  sob  rose  again,  "Jim  didn't  need 
to  be  quite  so  good-looking  in  his  new  clothes!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 
THE  DANCE  OF  THE  LITTLE  SEA-MAID 

IN  the  pleasure-packed  days  that  ensued,  Julia  was 
fated  to  meet  with  a  complex,  unforeseen,  and 
startlingly  new  even  to  her  wide  experience.  At 
its  initial  appearance  she  pooh-poohed  the  suggestion 
as  ludicrous.  But  it  hourly  deepened  and  neared, 
until  she  was  literally  forced  to  acknowledgment. 
Incredible  as  it  seemed,  the  menace  lay  in  a  sudden, 
complete  introversion  of  what  she  had  believed  her 
personal  attitude  toward  Lucille. 

On  the  very  threshold  of  middle-aged  victory,  this 
young  girl,  inexperienced  and  untried,  her  uncon 
sciousness  of  what  she  now  threatened  the  most  potent 
weapon  that  Love  could  have  put  into  her  hand,  this 
Lucille  whom  Julia  had  called  the  fly  in  the  ointment, 
the  recalcitrant  cog  in  the  wheel,  through  sheer  splen 
dor  of  courage,  was  making  insidious  encroachment 
upon  the  very  foundation  of  motive,  the  Archplotter's 
womanly  heart. 

In  vain,  with  fists  clenched,  Julia  muttered,  "She 
is  getting  no  more  than  she  richly  deserves.  I  ought 
to  be  glad  that  she  suffers.  When  I  think  what  she's 
put  Ciceley  through  !  Of  course  I  threw  Mark  in  her 

277 


278  THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 

path.  I  did  it  deliberately,  for  I  needed  his  help. 
He's  been  splendid !  But  it  isn't  my  fault  if  Lucille, 
at  first  sight,  went  head  over  ears  into  the  trap.  I 
expected  her  to  be  more  on  guard.  She  knew  very 
well  we  were  duelists,  and  that  I  fought  on  Ciceley's 
behalf." 

In  vain  she  plied  whip  and  spur  to  her  lagging 
austerity.  Lucille  moved  among  them,  a  part  of  their 
revelry,  but  serene,  unbetraying,  impersonal  as  light. 
Her  pride  in  her  radiant  mother  was,  apparently,  as 
genuine  as  that  of  the  little  one,  or  of  Jim.  For  the 
once  misprized  "Pelican,"  now  a  newly  fledged 
Phcenix,  with  the  last  hidden  fear  that  Lucille  would 
"make  fun  of  her"  removed,  was  expanding  into  the 
colors  and  the  perfume  of  youth. 

The  one  noticeable  change  in  the  outer  Lucille  was 
her  tenderness  and  deference  to  Ciceley.  Julia 
watching,  as  one  watches  for  chemical  valences,  could 
detect  not  a  quiver  of  torment.  The  girl's  defence 
was  perfection.  Out  of  the  group,  Julia  alone  sus 
pected,  —  Julia  knew !  Her  scars  from  a  similar 
baptism  of  fire  cried  aloud.  There  were  times  when 
it  required  on  her  part  a  lacerating  self-control  to 
keep  her  from  throwing  herself  at  the  feet  of  this 
heroine,  and  saying,  "You  have  won  me,  you  splendid 
patrician  !  I  give  up.  You're  a  queen  in  a  tumbril, 
and  I  an  old  red-hatted  fury,  shrieking  for  guillotine 
blood.  Sis  isn't  worth  it.  I  am  not  sure  even  Jim 
is.  Don't  you  see,  don't  you  feel  that  Mark  knows  ? 
He  could  be  quite  as  madly  in  love  as  you  are,  but 
has  held  himself  under  tight  rein  because  I  have  asked 
him  to  help.  It's  all  to  make  Ciceley  marry  Jim." 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  279 

As  for  Lucille,  in  her  innermost  self,  from  that 
moment  down  at  the  station,  —  already  because  of  the 
subsequent  strain  it  seemed  to  have  happened  ages 
ago,  —  when  her  eyes  first  encompassed  a  decked  and 
rejuvenant  Ciceley,  the  full  meaning  of  Julia's  deep- 
laid  stratagem  grew  clear.  It  was  all  just  a  brilliantly 
organized  scheme,  centripetal  to  the  small,  helpless 
mother,  —  the  mother  of  whom  she  had  been,  until 
now,  openly  ashamed.  Ciceley  was  being  remodelled, 
revivified ;  and,  in  spite  of  her  own  cloying  fantasies, 
being  led,  as  a  wondering  child  by  the  hand,  to  the 
giving  and  taking  of  happiness.  For  the  outer 
processes  of  her  client's  transformation,  Julia  had 
wished  a  free  field  and  no  critics.  Hence  the  trip  to 
New  York !  What  pleasure,  advantage,  or  hurt  she 
and  Sylvia  might  get  from  it,  were  negligible  by 
products. 

All  Lucille's  thoughtful  reading  and  crude  attempts 
at  self-training,  stood  her  now  in  good  stead.  Her 
pride  was  her  one  inviolable  sanctuary,  an  arid  and 
chill  crypt  indeed,  with  the  bones  of  dead  hopes 
scattered  wide,  but  withal  a  retreat,  a  seclusion.  In 
that  underground  cell  she  could  pluck  out  her  arrows 
and  view  them ;  and  not  even  here  did  one  moan  of 
self-pity  escape. 

She,  Lucille,  had  been  used  with  as  little  compunc 
tion  as  one  uses  a  broom  to  clear  pathways  for  feet 
more  beloved.  Like  herself,  Mark  Stanwood,  and 
all  that  his  boyish  ideals  might  be  made  to  subserve, 
was  only  a  slip  in  the  lottery  of  middle-aged  hearts. 
For  once,  youth  had  gone  to  the  wall. 

Wick  and  Sylvia,  having  prettily  spoken  their  lines, 


280  THE    STIRRUP   LATCH 

were  set  free  and,  already,  two  unthinking,  most- 
blissful  humming-birds,  had  sped  to  a  double-winged 
heaven  of  their  own. 

Yes,  let  her  face  it,  let  her  crush  this  bitter,  black 
grape  of  despair  on  her  lips.  They  had  used  her,  the 
once  proud  and  disdainful  Lucille.  Between  them 
they  had  broken  her  heart.  To  each  pull  of  the 
marionette  string  she,  like  a  silly,  blind  fool,  had  re 
sponded.  If  it  snapped  at  the  last,  none  would  care. 
The  two  chief  puppets,  Jim  and  Ciceley,  still  jigging, 
would  soon  measure  their  steps  to  the  rhythm  of  a 
wedding  march.  With  that  one  thing  accomplished, 
all*  the  rest  of  the  automata  could  be  flung  to  a  dust- 
heap. 

"And  yet, "'here  the  thought  came  in  fibers  of  fire 
and  ice  intermingled,  "was  it  certain  that  Jim  was  to 
win?"  Even  Julia's  omnipotence  had  human  limits. 
Mark's  devotion  to  Ciceley  was  obvious  and  intense, 
and  Ciceley  did  not  repulse  him.  In  their  jaunts  and 
excursions  the  small  group  fell  always  into  pairs. 
Julia  led  off  with  the  Colonel.  Close  behind,  when 
not  actually  with  them,  came  Mark  and  her  mother. 
The  consciousness  of  being  again  "pretty,"  again  loved 
and  desired,  had  magically  brought  back  to  Ciceley 
much  of  the  sweetness,  the  charm,  the  gentle  yet  gay 
repartee  of  a  girlhood  she  had  believed  irrevocably 
foregone. 

Invariably  the  last  of  the  couples,  and  as  far  from 
the  others  as  they  dared,  little  Sylvia,  with  Wick's 
head  bent  over,  smiled  through  their  rose-colored 
cloud  of  first  love. 

She,  Lucille,  was  the  odd,  the  unmated  one.    Like 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  281 

some  rootless,  exquisite  water-plant,  bearing  blossoms 
that  none  care  to  cull,  she  drifted  from  one  to  another 
extraneous  current  of  pleasure.  She  was  welcomed, 
of  course,  with  a  courtesy  and  simulated  warmth 
that  was  perhaps  the  bitterest  fiber  of  all  her  humilia 
tion.  She  was  urged  to  remain  with  each  pair.  But 
smiling,  with  dignity  untarnished,  she  would  soon 
glide  away  to  the  next. 

Julia,  who  now  strove,  more  for  her  own  sake  than 
that  of  Lucille,  not  to  watch  her,  often,  in  unguarded 
flashes  of  apprehension,  caught  her  breath  in  a  marvel 
at  the  girl's  perfect  poise.  So  young,  so  untried  before 
this  test  in  the  hottest  of  furnaces,  Lucille  was  achiev 
ing  the  seemingly  impossible.  She  was  turning,  — 
indeed  she  had  turned,  —  the  substance  of  a  flung- 
cloak  of  scorn,  into  ermine,  her  scourge,  now  stiff 
with  heart's  blood,  to  a  scepter. 

But  as  Julia  alone  of  them  knew,  the  girl's  feet  trod, 
each  new  inch,  on  a  thorn.  There  were  times  of  such 
torture  that  Lucille  would  think  of  herself  as  the 
Little  Sea-Maid,  dancing  her  dance  of  love's  anguish, 
just  to  be  near  the  Prince  of  her  Dreams.  "Smile, 
smile,"  she  would  cry  to  her  spirit.  "  Don't  let  the 
others  suspect.  Be  thankful  the  soul  does  not  bleed." 

In  the  pauses  of  quieter  reverie,  when  her  personal 
hurt  was  less  keen,  the  girl  found  time  to  wonder  at  a 
phase  that  from  the  first  had  intrigued  and  perplexed 
her.  This  was  the  continued,  and  apparently  genuine 
equanimity  of  "Uncle  Jim."  He  seemed  to  resent 
not  at  all  the  young  Englishman's  absorption  in 
Ciceley.  He  even  appeared  to  connive  with  Julia  in 
throwing  them  together.  Then  too,  after  the  first 


282  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

incredulous  stare,  the  astonishing  transformation  of 
"Sis"  had  been  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course. 

For  a  day  or  two  after  returning,  the  old  friends, 
Jim  and  Ciceley,  might  have  been  caught  exchanging 
glances  of  quizzical  self-consciousness,  looks  like  those 
which  two  newly-hatched  butterflies,  long  associate  as 
grubs,  might  steal  each  to  the  golden  spread  wings  of 
the  other.  But  such  consciousness  had  been  quickly 
absorbed  into  the  usual. 

New  thoughts  crowded  in.  The  girl,  sitting  alone 
in  her  room,  knitted  her  brows  with  the  tension. 
Colonel  Jim  and  his  supposedly  unselfish  ally  were 
strangely  contented  together.  They  had  whispers, 
nods,  and  quick  murmured  conferences  which  none  of 
the  rest  of  the  group  was  allowed  to  share.  Cousin 
Jule,  always  perfectly  gowned,  seemed,  in  herself,  to 
be  undergoing  a  fresh  recrudescence.  Somewhere  — 
some  time,  in  the  past,  —  it  had  then  seemed  too 
trivial  for  retention,  —  Lucille  distinctly  recalled  hav 
ing  been  told,  or,  more  probably  having  overheard  in 
a  conversation  of  elders  not  meant  for  her  ears,  that 
from  childhood  Julia  Wickford  had  cared  for  Jim  Roy 
in  the  same  hopeless  way  he  had  always  loved  Ciceley. 
The  narrator,  —  whosoever  it  was,  —  had  gone  on  to 
say  that  Julia's  marriage  to  the  elderly  Judge  Preston 
had  been  a  direct  outcome  of  despair,  tempered  by  the 
grace  of  self-sacrifice  to  a  derelict  father. 

Now,  fingering  each  remembered  passage  of  indi 
vidual  experience  with  Julia,  as  one  tries  the  stops  of  a 
flute,  she  paused,  vividly  arrested  by  the  image  of 
Mrs.  Preston's  face,  when  asked  so  abruptly,  "How 
has  it  happened  that  you  never  married  again,  Cousin 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  283 

Julia?"  She  had  scored  there.  The  material  point 
of  her  brief  triumph  had  then  been  invisible.  Now  it 
lay  in  full  view,  as  a  coin  or  a  trinket  fallen  in  grass 
and  long  sought  for,  makes  impish  and  sudden  ap 
pearance. 

This  she  held  as  a  clue,  following  far.  Cousin  Jule 
neither  did  or  said  things  without  a  full  consciousness 
of  their  effect.  Her  most  trivial  and  apparently  spon 
taneous  remarks  had  betrayed,  more  than  once,  keen 
forethought.  Was  it  thinkable,  possible,  that  any 
mere  human  creature,  her  youth  nearly  gone,  her 
powers  of  intellect  and  will  at  their  height,  would 
spend  time,  money,  and  effort,  or  use  her  most  intri 
cate  processes  of  diplomacy,  all  for  the  mere  bringing 
together  of  a  cousin  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  years, 
who  had  not  even  taken  the  trouble  to  answer  her 
letters,  and  a  man  with  whom  she  was  still  probably 
in  love  ? 

"No  ! "  moaned  the  girl  from  the  depths  of  her  own 
hopeless  misery,  "No  woman  alive  could  do  that !" 

If  this  last  and  most  blighting  solution  were  true, 
then  not  only  Mark  and  herself,  but  Ciceley  in  equal 
degree,  were  mere  tools  for  Julia's  self-using.  And 
with  what  marvellous,  incredible  cleverness  she  was 
working  it  out !  That  part  of  the  girl's  mind  where 
intellect  swung  free  from  the  personal,  bowed  in 
acknowledging  a  master.  It  was  queer  too,  that  de 
spite  what  she  thought  was  a  life  irrevocably  shattered, 
she  could  not  feel  hatred  against  Julia.  Somehow 
love  and  its  chastening  grief  had  so  filled  her,  there 
was  no  room  left  for  hate. 

Her  one  throe  of  bitterness  inhered  in  a  sort  of 


284  THE    STIRRUP   LATCH 

fierce  championship  for  Mark.  If  he  really  loved 
Ciceley  with  all  the  full  strength  of  his  passion,  and 
was  trying  to  make  her  his  wife !  There  was  only 
great  tenderness  for  Ciceley.  She  could  not  yet  bring 
herself  to  believe  that  her  mother  would  marry  a  man 
several  years  younger.  People  did  not  do  things  like 
that  on  the  Hill !  But  if  Julia  succeeded  in  turning 
Jim's  heart  or  his  fancy,  might  not  Ciceley,  reacting 
to  such  a  defection,  and  goaded,  of  course,  by  the 
others,  —  might  she  not,  after  all  — 

But  this  proved  the  unbearable  thought.  The  girl 
cowered,  and  distractedly  rocked  to  and  fro.  That 
the  only  man  she  had  loved,  or  ever  should  love, 
might  fantastically,  inconceivably  become  the  husband 
of  her  own  mother !  Her  mind  could  not  admit  such 
a  horror.  It  seemed  one  of  those  hideous  complexes 
about  which  old  Greek  drama  is  wrought. 

Whether,  at  the  drawing  together  of  Julia's  mario 
nette  curtains,  tragedy  or  comedy  would  prevail,  the 
stage  setting  loaned  her  by  nature  for  the  final  act 
was  brilliant  beyond  human  art.  Since  arriving,  there 
had  been  just  one  day  of  incessant,  roof-pounding  rain. 
They  consoled  themselves,  saying,  with  truth,  that 
the  farmers  were  needing  it.  Jim  grinned  to  himself. 
He,  too,  needed  the  rain.  His  oranges  had  been 
ripening  fast.  This  generous  soaking  would  add  the 
last  gleam  to  their  beauty.  Besides,  there  was  always 
that  other  thing  he  now  desired  of  his  trees,  —  that 
magical  twig  for  which,  every  day,  he  and  Rover 
went  searching.  After  this,  it  would  surely 
materialize. 

All  day  long,  through  the  storm,  the  seven  friends 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  285 

kept  indoors  at  Little  Sunshine.  Every  hearth  was 
ablaze.  In  the  huge  open  grate  of  the  drawing-room, 
behind  andirons  of  brass,  roared,  coiled,  exploded  to 
stars  and  then  danced,  a  fire  of  big,  misshapen  pine- 
knots  like  which,  in  the  burning,  there  is  no  other 
such  fire  in  the  world.  As  Mark  classically  mused, 
"If  Prometheus,  poor  old  chap,  could  be  sneaked  out 
of  torment  to  see  it,  he'd  not  care  quite  so  much, 
after  that,  how  quickly  his  vulture-devoured  liver 
grew." 

Wick  and  Sylvia,  like  the  two  happy  children  they 
were,  popped  corn  in  a  long-handled  wire-mesh  basket 
held  over  the  coals,  or  thrust  sweet  potatoes  and  chest 
nuts  deep  into  red-gray  ashes.  Sylvia,  the  puss,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  burned  her  fingers ;  a  disaster  neces 
sitating  immediate,  dual  flight  into  privacy,  where 
Wick's  kisses  could  be  given  for  balm. 

All  at  once,  toward  sunset,  the  black,  basalt  sky 
splintered  into  cubes.  In  immense  drifts,  as  of  ice 
floes,  the  wedges  of  cloud  drew  apart,  revealing  a 
golden-red  sky  underneath. 

Jim,  cautiously  deserting  the  group,  strode  out  to 
the  driveway,  where  he  stood,  feet  planted  at  a 
Colossus-like  distance,  and  began  to  appraise  the 
round  sky  with  the  slow-moving  eye  of  a  weather 
prophet. 

What  he  saw  seemed  to  please ;  but  his  solitary 
communing  with  the  elements  was  brief.  The  rest 
had  missed  him,  and  now  laughingly  came  in  pursuit. 
Wick  and  Sylvia,  as  usual,  were  "racing."  It  was 
obvious  to  all  but  the  beneficiary  that  he  allowed  little 
Sylvia  to  reach  the  set  goal. 


286  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Uncle  Jim,  Uncle  Jim!"  she  called  out,  while 
speeding,  and  a  moment  later  having  won,  she  clung 
for  support  to  his  arm.  "  It's  all  clearing  up  !  There's 
a  mocking  bird  starting  to  sing.  You  said  you'd  been 
waiting  for  rain.  Won't  you  take  us  to  see  the  oranges 
now?" 

"What !  Just  before  night,  and  my  trees  all  beaten 
and  sandy?  Well,  I  rather  think  not!"  flouted  the 
Colonel.  "But  it  won't  be  long  now,"  he  relented, 
in  the  voice  of  tolerance  and  concession  peculiarly 
maddening  to  youth.  "I  should  say,  by  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  at  latest." 

"Why  not  to-morrow?  It's  nearer,"  suggested 
Wick  boldly. 

Julia  reached  them  in  time  to  hear  this  remark  of 
her  son.  "They  will  be  still  a  bit  sandy  all  to 
morrow,"  she  threw  in.  "But,  as  Jim  says,  by  the 
day  after,  surely  —  Her  words  were  for  Wick,  but 
the  bright,  meaning  smile  of  confederacy  flashed  to  Jim. 
Lucille,  now  quite  close,  intercepted  it.  She  had  no 
wish  to  see ;  but  these  days,  wherever  she  might  turn, 
there  was  always  a  new  thrust  of  pain  to  be  fended. 

From  the  look  and  her  haste  to  avoid  it,  her  eyes 
met,  and  by  sinister  magnetism  were  constrained  to 
watch,  a  scene  which  her  mother  and  Mark,  oblivious 
of  an  audience,  had  begun  to  enact. 

The  two,  loitering  behind  all  the  others,  but  mov 
ing,  it  seemed,  with  the  purpose  of  ultimately  joining 
them,  had  come  to  a  definite  pause.  The  small 
hostess,  her  sweet  face  uplifted,  now  spoke.  Her 
words  were,  of  course,  quite  inaudible.  She  gave  a 
quick  gesture  out  toward  the  left,  where  a  path  ran, 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  287 

half-hidden  in  shrubbery.  Side  by  side,  they  turned 
into  the  path. 

Again  they  came  to  a  standstill,  and  with  a  pang 
surely  disproportionately  ravaging,  Lucille  saw  that 
they  stooped  to  a  small  evergreen  bush,  upon  which, 
even  at  this  distance,  the  star  of  an  opening  flower 
could  be  seen.  This  was  the  rare,  white  camellia,  the 
blossom  of  snow,  with  a  chrysophrase  heart  which 
alone,  out  of  the  wide,  herbal  plenitude  of  the  garden, 
Lucille  had  desired  for  her  own. 

Mark,  with  a  nod  and  a  gesture  that  asked  for  his 
companion's  permission,  broke  the  one  flower  short, 
and  bowing,  proffered  it.  His  face  was  invisible.  But 
Ciceley's  brown  eyes  and  quick  blushes  glowed  out 
with  the  clearness  of  gems. 

Now  she  fastened  it  with  fingers  that  were  appar 
ently  unsteady,  to  the  front  of  her  brown  velvet 
blouse.  Mark's  sleek,  shining  head  bent  down  lower. 
Whatever  it  was  that  he  said,  Ciceley  shrank.  Her 
two  hands  went  out,  as  if  warding.  She  made  a  swift, 
gasping  response,  faltered  backward,  then,  seeing  the 
others,  came  towards  them  in  what  was  almost  a  run. 
Through  the  saturate,  gold  light  of  evening,  she  looked 
a  mere  girl  in  her  teens.  To  Lucille,  even,  stung  and 
writhing  with  new  anguish,  she  was  exquisite,  desir 
able,  compelling. 

The  sulking  of  clouds  overhead  was  all  ended.  The 
sun  at  the  rim  of  the  world  tipped  his  hat.  A  myriad 
birds  gave  salute  in  shrill  song. 

"Well,"  remarked  Julia,  with  a  sob  in  her  throat, 
quite  inexplicable,  "we  shall  be  able  to  dine  in  town 
as  Mark's  guests,  after  all !" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

THE  GARDEN  OF  HESPERIDES 

SINCE  his  return,  now  two  weeks  past,  Colonel 
Jim  had  been  host  at  more  than  one  "frolic."  Not 
only  this  but,  incited  by  the  wonders  of  restoration 
achieved  at  Little  Sunshine,  he  had  put  his  own  huge 
mansion,  together  with  its  surroundings,  into  the 
hands  of  the  new  firm,  —  Preston  and  Preston,  House 
and  Landscape  Architects.  Remodeling  a  Specialty. 

Their  sagacious,  initial  step  had  been  a  somewhat 
ruthless  trimming  of  the  live  oaks  that  engloomed 
the  big  house.  Great  arcs  of  low-hanging  limbs  were 
cut  off,  the  scars  hidden  from  view  by  a  smearing 
of  wood-colored  oakum.  Next  the  entire  vast  floor 
of  the  avenue,  from  gateway  to  stately  white  columns, 
was  spread  with  the  snow  of  pounded  shell.  The 
improvement  wrought  by  these  changes  alone  bor 
dered  upon  the  miraculous. 

The  house  must  be  painted  both  inside  and  out. 
This  was  Julia's  decree.  Last  of  all  was  to  come  the 
great  feminine  orgy  of  selecting  new  draperies,  — 
carpets,  rugs,  portieres,  window  curtains,  new  uphol 
stery  for  the  Chippendale  chairs,  —  and  a  fresh  store 
of  dainty  house  linen.  In  this  part  of  the  undertaking, 

288 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  289 

Ciceley  and  her  daughters  had  already  announced 
their  intention  to  cooperate. 

Until  now  Colonel  Jim  had  used  money  with  the 
primitive  casualness  of  a  savage,  stripping  off,  at 
his  need,  beads  of  wampum.  His  own  wants  were 
boyishly  few.  On  "Sis  and  the  girls"  he  had  spent 
to  the  limit  of  generous  trickery;  but  being  by 
nature  neither  ingenious  nor  a  hypocrite,  this  road 
had  not  led  very  far. 

Now  Julia,  along  with  more  vital  things,  was 
teaching  him  the  rapture  of  spending.  He  revelled 
in  waste  like  an  urchin  loose  in  a  sweet-shop,  dis 
pensing  largesse  to  his  mates.  New  York  is  a  mad 
school  for  squanderers.  The  germ  had  first  entered 
him  there. 

No  suggested  extravagance  could  daunt  him.  "  Get 
the  best.  Order  more!"  he  would  cry.  "I  am 
quite  well  aware,"  he  said,  grinning,  "that  I've 
given  myself  over  to  sharks.  But  I'll  never  call 
'  quits '  while  there's  a  nickel  in  the  bank ;  and  even 
if  you  skin  me  to  that,  I've  a  crop  of  oranges,  —  the 
biggest  and  best  ever  grown,  —  just  yelling  out 
dollars." 

"We're  eternally  hearing  about  those  oranges," 
challenged  Mark  to  this  statement.  "We  never 
open  our  mouths  but  you  fling  —  metaphorically  — 
a  cartload  in  our  faces.  It's  beginning  to  look  a 
bit  thick!  Why  the  mystery?  Why  the  keenness 
to  keep  us  away?" 

Jim  smiled,  —  an  exasperating  smile  of  assurance. 
Since  their  return  from  New  York,  no  matter  how 
open  and  generous  his  other  forms  of  hospitality,  the 


2QO  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

whole  "bunch",  as  he  called  them,  was  sternly  for 
bidden  a  glimpse  of  his  oranges.  He  was  keeping 
that  show  for  the  final  one.  Even  the  house  windows 
facing  that  way  had  been  barred. 

The  excuses  wrung  from  him  were  banal.  One 
day  was  too  hot;  another  too  cool.  Of  late,  and 
with  more  show  of  reason,  he  said  that  the  drought 
was  holding  them  back.  "After  a  good  heavy  rain, 
they'll  be  in  perfection.  Then  you  shall  see  what  you 
shall  see!" 

The  rain  had  obligingly  come  down,  but  not  so 
Colonel  Jim.  "Pretty  soon,  pretty  soon  now,"  he 
evaded.  "Perhaps  by  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

That  night  at  Mark's  dinner,  given  in  a  private 
room  at  the  hotel,  Jim  announced  that  by  way  of 
compensation  for  the  waiting,  he  had  thought  up 
a  new  and  a  typically  Southern  entertainment.  If  the 
assembled  ones  would  honor  him  with  their  presences, 
he  would  give,  the  following  evening  at  Stag  Harbor, 
a  regular  "possum  supper." 

When  the  chorus  of  acceptances  died  down,  he  said, 
with  quizzical  eyes  full  on  Ciceley,  "I  will  give  it, 
that  is,  if  Sis  says  I  may  have  Mammy  Nycie  to 
help." 

From  Ciceley's  quick  nod  he  wheeled  around  to 
Mark.  "That  she-nigger,"  he  explained  somewhat 
crudely,  "together  with  my  coon,  old  Snow,  can  fix 
up  a  platter  of  possum,  with  '  taters-in-de-gravy ' 
that  would  make  St.  Peter  at  the  gate  let  Beelzebub 
slip  through." 

This  "loaning"  of  one  or  the  other  faithful  ser 
vant  had  come  to  be  part  of  the  programme.  For 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  291 

the  old  couple  themselves,  it  was  a  visible  nearing 
of  joy.  Oftentimes,  when  working  together  in  kitchen 
or  pantry,  the  bright  turbaned  head  and  the  snowy 
one  almost  touching,  they  would  pause,  their  thick 
lips  widening  to  the  sound  of  "Miss  Ciceley's"  laugh 
ter.  It  had  been  a  long  toll  of  years  since  "Mammy's 
Baby"  had  laughed  just  like  that.  The  antiphony 
of  "Marse  Jim's"  louder  mirth  never  failed  them. 

To  the  ears  of  the  listeners  outside  both  were 
equally  star-singing  music.  Through  the  cadence 
each  heard  sounds  of  bells  —  wedding  bells  —  a 
prophetic  and  heavenly  chiming  rung  not  alone  for 
"de  white  folks."  A  second  chime  followed  —  hum 
ble  —  covert  —  jangling  softly  through  trees  in  a 
valley,  from  the  spire  of  the  "Fust  Foot-Washin' 
Baptist  Ch'uch,"  down  in  Sand  Town. 

It  meant  for  these  two  sure  companionship  down 
the  long  slope  of  years;  the  laying  forever  of  old 
age's  dread  specter  of  loneliness.  They  could  see, 
as  through  mist,  the  bright  gleam  of  a  hearthstone, 
and  they  two,  lifelong  friends,  side  by  side  in  its 
warmth.  For  the  summer  would  be  the  two  split- 
bottomed  chairs  on  the  porch.  Lady  Bansias  would 
tumble  about  it,  and  in  their  own  bit  of  "yard"  a 
few  pet  chickens  would  scratch  and  preen.  They 
thanked  God,  these  reverent  old  children,  for  the 
peace  and  content  of  their  lot. 

Colonel  Jim's  possum  supper  was  more  than  suc 
cessful  ;  it  was  a  triumph.  For  its  creation  his  new 
traits  of  extravagance  and  secrecy  were  both  brought 
into  play.  Apart  from  the  eager  darkies,  Julia 
alone  was  admitted  to  the  arcana  of  preparation. 


292  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

All  through  the  forenoon,  she  and  Jim  kept  to  them 
selves  and  their  work.  At  the  gate  was  posted  a 
negro  urchin,  as  sentry,  with  orders  to  give  warning 
at  the  first  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  others  to  in 
trude.  (What  Jim  really  had  said  was  "butt  in.") 

That  night,  about  six,  when  the  guests,  still  grum 
bling  and  pretending  high  dudgeon,  were  ushered 
in,  even  the  most  spleenful  small  member  which  was 
Ciceley,  granted  amnesty. 

The  dining-room  walls  were  half  covered  with 
pine  branches,  set  thick  with  their  brown  velvet 
cones.  Among  them  were  limbs  of  the  red-oak  and 
maple,  frost  tinted  to  carmine  and  orange.  On  the 
table,  for  centerpiece,  lay  a  round  bed  of  moss,  from 
which  sprang  laden  sprays  of  puckered  persimmons, 
chinquepins  in  a  green  explosion  of  burrs,  and  racemes 
of  bloomy,  purple  whortle-berries. 

The  cloth  was  of  coarse  unbleached  linen,  its 
edges  embroidered  —  literally  sewn  by  needle  and 
thread  —  with  a  striking  key-pattern  done  in  point- 
lapping  autumn  leaves.  Conspicuously  upon  it 
sat  the  huge  platter  holding  the  possum.  Sweet 
potatoes  lay  about  it  like  petals,  and  to  make  the 
dish  really  a  creation,  Julia  had  placed,  in  a  continu 
ous  wreath  near  the  rim,  a  cirrus  of  scraped  carrot- 
parings,  mingled  with  parsley. 

There  were  cold  meats  in  plenty,  thin  broiled 
ham  sizzlingly  hot,  various  dishes  of  relish,  homemade 
spiced  peaches,  walnut  pickles,  stuffed  mangoes,  and 
gherkins. 

Mammy  Nycie  did  not  appear.  Her  concern  was 
creation,  not  dispersal ;  but  old  Snow,  with  the  tremu- 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  293 

lous  awe  of  an  acolyte,  shuffled  round  the  gustatory 
shrine.  Every  few  moments  he  would  dart  again 
toward  the  pantry,  summoned  apparently  by  a 
mystical  warning,  and  return,  holding  aloft  a  new 
and  fragrant  oblation  of  hot  rolls. 

When  the  banquet  was  ended,  and  all  sat  before 
the  hickory-wood  fire,  Jim  imparted  the  great  news 
that  at  last  his  orchard  was  in  trim  to  receive  them. 
In  the  morning,  about  ten,  they  could  come.  Even 
yet  there  were  minor  restrictions.  He  insisted  on 
meeting  Mark  at  the  car,  to  "hold  on  to  his  coat 
tails,"  as  he  said,  until  the  entire  group  had  gathered. 
No  one  must  take  a  step  until  he,  Jim,  had  given  the 
signal.  However  others  might  regard  it,  the  affair, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Master  of  Ceremonies,  evidently 
loomed  as  a  national  event. 

Next  morning  before  the  most  eager  of  "Little 
Sunshiners"  could  have  been  stirring,  the  Colonel, 
already  dressed  and  great-coated,  with  Rover  inevi 
tably  at  heel,  went  out  in  the  dawn  to  his  oranges. 

A  fog  thick  and  damp  as  wet  moss  lay  upon  them. 
The  trees  showed  symmetrical  humps  under  a  wide 
spreading  coverlid.  The  pond  with  its  island  was 
invisibly  part  of  a  misty  gray  void.  Behind  inky 
pine-tops,  far  distant,  the  hampered  sun  strove  for 
ascendency.  His  red  breath  was  as  cold  as  the  fog. 
Jim  drew  up  his  collar,  emitting  a  loud,  shuddering 
"B-r-r-r-r!" 

At  this,  Rover,  inspired  by  the  sound  to  a  similar 
rousing,  gave  one  yelp  and  a  long  forward  leap. 
The  mist  soaked  him  up,  a  brown  splotch  on  an  end 
less  expanse  of  gray  blotting-paper;  but  Jim  fol- 


294  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

lowed  the  dog's  scampering  diagonal,  as  if  tied  to  a 
string. 

Not  until  he  reached  the  orchard's  most  distant 
angle  of  growth  did  he  pause.  Rover  panting, 
triumphant,  and  now  seated,  welcomed  him  from 
among  the  boughs  of  a  tree.  The  man  grinned. 
"We  know  what  we're  after,  old  Sport!" 

Jim  moved  eager,  tentative  hands  through  the 
foliage.  The  mist  seemed  to  thin  where  he  stood. 
An  odor,  exotic,  enchanting,  crept  into  the  dense, 
chilly  air.  All  at  once  the  great  sun,  pushing  down 
cowering  pines  to  a  threshold,  stood  erect  at  the  por 
tals  of  day.  A  red  shaft  of  glory  struck  Jim's  shoulder 
and  gilded  his  outstretched  hand.  The  white  flowers 
that  he  touched  blushed  to  rose  hues.  On  them  dew 
hung  in  tears,  —  happy  tears.  A  mocking  bird 
nesting  beneath  fluttered  out,  and  in  going  scattered 
rapturous  echoes  and  trills.  Jim  smiled  at  the 
bird.  Pretty  soon  might  not  he,  too,  know  rapture? 

His  flower,  his  talisman,  had  bloomed.  Only  once 
in  a  long,  long  while  did  the  sporadic  wonder  occur, 
-  did  a  full,  fruit-laden  tree  put  forth  such  an  echo 
of  spring  in  late  autumn.  Heretofore  he  had  watched 
for  them  merely  as  exquisite  fantasies.  Last  year 
there  had  been  none  at  all. 

But  now,  from  some  hidden,  unrealized  inception, 
Jim  found  himself  nurturing  a  desire,  a  fond  hope, 
that  had  deeped  into  something  resembling  obsession. 
From  the  hour  of  his  recent  home-coming,  he  and 
Rover  had  searched,  tree  by  tree.  Surely,  after  all 
the  love  and  care  he  had  given,  they  could  not  refuse 
him  this  boon ! 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  295 

Leaning,  seeking,  parting  dark  branches,  with 
Rover  as  breathlessly  keen  as  himself,  Jim  had  come 
to  believe  in  his  heart,  even  though  reason  derided, 
that  a  spray  of  these  flowers,  with  their  age-long 
associations  of  joy,  would,  if  blown  to  his  hand  in 
this  crux,  prove  the  wand  of  necromancy  and  open 
at  last  the  Closed  Door. 

Then,  in  one  heart-catching  instant,  he  found  it  — 
he  or  Rover  —  he  never  knew  which.  It  was  hidden 
near  the  crest  of  a  small,  remote  tree,  a  mere  finger 
of  green,  crowding  buds,  and  yet  quite  enough  for 
the  beckoning  of  hope.  At  dawn  and  at  twilight 
Jim  sought  it.  No  child  in  its  garden  digging  up 
seeds  to  find  whether  or  not  they  had  sprouted,  no 
midsummer  boy  promised  his  first  rifle  "next  Christ 
mas,"  ever  watched  time  with  more  desperate  eager 
ness  than  did  Jim  for  this  blooming  of  flowers.  For 
this,  he  had  kept  friends  at  bay.  Because  of  it,  and 
its  interminable  tardiness,  agents  were  mumbling 
anathema,  and  the  still  empty  orange-crates,  heaped 
into  tottering,  pyramids,  threatened  collapse. 

The  Colonel  was  obdurate.  "Let  the  darned  rob 
bers  wait,"  he  said,  scowling.  "Yes,  I  know  that  I 
promised  delivery,  and  the  time's  overdue,  —  but 
what  of  it!  I  reckon  the  oranges  are  mine  while 
I've  got  them." 

But  now  after  rain  and  the  warm  sun-steeped 
day  that  followed,  all  reason  for  waiting  was  ended. 
There  was  never  more  perfect  a  spray.  The  few 
wide-opened  florets  were  marvels  of  ivory  and  gold. 
Great,  rounded  white  buds,  tapering  thickly  to  smaller 
ones,  drooped  like  the  lids  of  a  girl. 


296  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

Jim,  after  a  long,  smiling,  ecstatic  survey,  and  one 
parting  sniff  of  delight,  turned  and  strode  back  to  the 
house.  It  was  still  very  early.  Uncle  Snow  was 
just  making  the  fires,  but  Jim  went  to  the  telephone, 
demanded  Mark's  hotel,  and  in  tones  that  made  the 
drowsy  night-clerk  first  blink,  and  then  giggle,  ordered 
immediate  connection  with  Mark. 

For  a  moment,  —  it  seemed  to  Jim  hours,  —  no 
response  could  be  gained.  "Keep  on  ringin' !  Bust 
the  wires.  Yes,  I  know  he's  in  bed ;  what  I  want  is 
to  get  him  out  of  it.  Don't  give  up.  You  can  put 
all  the  blame  on  Jim  Roy." 

Then  carne  the  Englishman's  voice  —  "What  the 
dev — !  Oh,  it's  you,  Colonel  Jim !  Are  you  there ! 
You're  a  bally  old  bird  to  do  this  to  a  chap  close  on 
midnight!" 

"Oh,  shut  up.  You're  to  catch  the  eight-thirty 
car  to  the  Hill.  The  whole  bunch  is  to  meet  early 
at  Little  Sunshine.  Don't  you  fail,  or  I'll  skin  you 
alive!" 

"Skin  on  and  be  d /'Mark  began,  but  the 

Colonel,  chuckling  hugely,  rang  off. 

It  was  barely  nine  when  the  two  men,  Mark  still 
"peeved",  as  the  Colonel  termed  it,  and  protesting 
against  being  hauled  from  his  bed  before  dawn,  neared 
the  gate  where  the  stirrup  latch  rested. 

Just  without,  by  a  common  instinct,  they  paused 
and  stood  looking  over  the  lawn  to  the  sunlit  old  home. 
A  light  frost,  too  delicate  even  to  taint  the  pure  petals 
of  camellias,  was  beginning  to  trickle  into  gems. 
The  air  smelled  of  chilled  violets.  Mocking  birds 
and  the  flashing  of  cardinals  showed  in  the  hedges. 


THE  STIRRUP  LATCH  297 

"Outside  of  England,"  said  Mark  in  a  low  voice, 
and  as  if  speaking  in  part  to  himself,  "there  are  no 
homes  with  just  the  repose,  the  serenity,  of  these  old 
Southern  ones.  It  looks  like  a  dream  set  in  crystal." 

Jim  vouchsafed  a  pleased  grunt.  "And  here  goes 
a  big  crack  in  the  dream,"  said  he,  lifting  the  stirrup 
latch  high. 

At  the  percussion,  five  figures  appeared  on  the  gal 
lery.  Laughing  gestures  were  given,  and  when  the  two 
drew  nearer,  gay  queries  and  exclamations.  "Isn't 
the  morning  too  lovely !  We've  been  up  and  dressed 
since  daybreak.  We're  ready  to  start  at  a  word." 

Jim  maintaining  his  warrant  of  despotism,  shouted 
orders  to  stop  where  they  were.  In  a  glimpse  he 
had  noted  that  Ciceley  was  dressed  all  in  black. 
This  was  not  to  his  fancy  and  he  intended  to  ask  her 
to  change  it.  This  was  his  Great  Day,  —  great  at 
least  in  luminous  possibilities.  Fate  might  cut  him 
down  at  the  last,  but  until  then  he  would  move  as  a 
conqueror. 

"Say,  Sis,"  he  began,  drawing  her  aside  and 
essaying  finesse  in  the  asking,  "you  look  mighty 
sweet,  and  I  know  that  is  one  of  your  new  dresses 
you're  wearing  — " 

"It  is!"  put  in  Ciceley.  "My  latest,  and  I  tell 
Julia  that  I  simply  cannot  and  will  not  afford  another. 
But  I  love  this;  just  look  at  the  braiding,  and  the 
shiny  big  buttons,  and  the  wonderful  set  of  the  skirt ! " 

Jim  laughed  out  for  joy.  That  "Sis  Pelican", 
in  so  short  a  time,  should  be  actually  defending  with 
vehemence  an  attack  on  the  cut  of  her  feathers ! 
It  was  all  part  of  hope  and  renascence. 


298  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

"Yes,  I  can  see  it's  the  thing,"  he  assured  her. 
He  tried  to  speak  soberly,  but  his  eyes,  crinkling, 
darted  blue  lights.  "You're  as  smart  as  a  little  new 
pin.  It's  the  color  I  kick  at.  You've  worn  black 
so  long,  and  I  hate  it.  Now  to-day  —  Won't  you 
humor  old  Jim  'cause  he  asks  it,  and  put  on  —  well  — 
that  chipmunky  brown  one  you  wore  when  you  met  us 
at  the  station?" 

"Why,  of  course,  if  you  want  it  so  much  —  funny 
boy !  Wait  here.  It  won't  take  me  a  minute." 

Wick  and  Sylvia  now  raced  to  the  garage  and 
emerged  seated  in  their  two  usual  places  at  the  front 
of  the  car.  Their  coming  was  announced  by  a  series 
of  yelps,  wheezes,  and  shrieks  on  the  "siren",  that 
immediately  threw  Rover  into  frenzy.  It  had  been 
another  of  Jim's  conditions  that,  instead  of  walking 
the  short  distance,  they  should  drive  to  his  orchard 
in  state.  The  two  happy,  giggling  creatures  now 
rending  the  sky  with  their  fooling  were  taking  this 
way  of  informing  him  that  their  part  was  being  done 
well. 

Jim  rushed  forward  to  check  them,  and  to  save,  if 
not  already  too  late,  the  few  molecules  of  intelligence 
still  left  to  his  prostrated  dog.  Julia  slipped  back  into 
the  house  to  help  Ciceley.  Lucille  and  Mark  Stan- 
wood  on  the  gallery  were  left,  for  a  moment,  alone. 

"One  would  think,"  said  the  girl,  smiling  up  at 
him,  "from  this  uproar  and  dear  Uncle  Jim's  per 
turbation  that  we  were  going  to  be  led  to  the  original, 
authentic  Gardens  of  Hesperides." 

"Who  knows,"  rejoined  Mark  thoughtfully,  his 
gaze  on  the  lawn.  "Who  ever  can  tell?" 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  299 

Ciceley  came  running  down-stairs.  Her  high 
heels  beat  a  tattoo  of  excitement.  The  skirt  of 
brown  velvet  edged  with  fur  swirled  and  clung  and 
swept  out  from  her  trim  silken  ankles.  Her  slippers 
were  of  bronze,  with  huge,  gold-bronze  buckles. 
The  short  jacket,  fur  bordered,  hung  in  straight  lines 
to  her  hips.  The  collar  went  high,  and  into  the  fur 
of  it  her  chin  nestled.  It  had  the  look  of  a  delicate, 
warm  fruit.  On  her  head  was  a  cap  of  brown  velvet, 
edged  and  pomponed  with  fur. 

All  the  soft  browns  and  tans,  with  their  gleamings 
of  yellow,  blent  to  tones  which  Jim  rightly  called 
"chipmunky."  At  sight  of  her  one  thought  instinc 
tively  of  soft  furry  things  bred  in  copses,  —  of  the 
mottling  of  fawns,  the  stripings  of  newly  fledged 
partridges,  of  butterflies,  golden  and  brown. 

She  went  up  directly  to  Jim.  They  looked  long 
in  each  other's  eyes. 

"All  you  need,  Little  Sis,"  said  the  man,  "is  a 
chinquepin  necklace  and  cross." 

Ciceley's  lids  fluttered  down.  "And  the  chin- 
quepins  are  getting  ripe  fast." 

Now  they  started.  Uncle  Snow,  on  watch  at 
the  Stag  Harbor  entrance  gate,  saluted  with  pomp 
as  they  passed.  In  the  great  rioting  hedge  which 
had  shut  out  the  view  of  Jim's  oranges,  a  hedge 
running  parallel  to  the  live  oak  avenue  but  at  quite 
a  distance  toward  the  east,  there  had  always  been  an 
arch  cut  through  the  foliage  and  known  by  the  darkies 
as  "de  white  folks'  do'h."  For  the  past  two  weeks  it 
had  been  concealed  by  the  pile  of  brushwood  and 
evergreen.  This  morning  the  orifice  showed  clear. 


300  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

While  yet  some  yards  from  it,  Jim  ordered  the  chauf 
feur  to  halt.  "  You're  to  go  through  it  one  by  one," 
stated  he ;  "I'll  lead  you  in  person,  and  I  want  each 
man-Jack  to  shut  his  eyes  tight  and  keep  'em  that 
way,  till  you're  all  side  by  side  facing  the  orchard,  and 
I  tell  you  to  look." 

There  was  no  use  opposing  the  overlord.  Authority 
flashed  from  his  eyes,  and  fulminated  in  his  voice. 
By  this  time  the  small  conclave  was  a  group,  not  of 
rational  adults,  but  of  nudging  and  giggling  school 
children.  "Now  play  fair!"  threatened  Jim,  as  he 
led  through  the  enfilade.  Just  beyond  he  ranged 
them  in  line,  elbows  touching.  They  were  almost 
hysterical  now,  feeling  themselves  to  be  idiots,  de 
lighting  in  such  merry  fooling,  with  lips  parted  wide, 
and  eyelids  obediently  screwed  down  to  mere  slits, 
until  Jim  boomed  the  word  of  release. 

The  first  to  find  utterance  was  Mark.  "Oh,  my 
eye!"  moaned  that  gallant  young  guardsman,  erst 
while  a  pet  jewel  of  courts.  "Now  I'm  utterly  sure 
that  I'm  dippy." 

"Take  heart,  man!"  cheered  Jim,  who  by  now 
evinced  symptoms  of  explosion.  "Step  right  out. 
Don't  be  scared.  Seeing's  believing,  you  know,  but 
feeling's  stark  truth.  Pick  'em  —  peel  —  eat  —  bust 
'em  wide  open  —  make  sure  they  are  there." 

Mark,  pretending  a  rope-walker's  caution,  ad 
vanced  to  the  golden-flung  gage.  The  others,  to 
whom  the  orchard  was  no  such  revelation,  at  first 
spurned  the  sight,  watching  him. 

About  five  acres  of  clearing,  a  place  where  Mark, 
as  a  boy,  had  often  dodged  among  giant  pine  trees, 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  301 

stretched  now  in  a  huge  tilted  basin,  slightly  con 
cave.  The  earth,  which  used  to  be  russet  with  pine 
straw,  shone  white  with  a  sparkle  like  sea  sand.  On 
its  dazzling  expanse  there  were  set,  line  on  line,  what 
appeared  to  be  mammoth  green  baskets,  brimmed 
and  foaming  with  golden  globules.  In  the  center  of 
all  gleamed  the  pond,  a  lagoon  of  pure  sapphire, 
held  in  by  an  atol  of  gold.  Mark's  delight  and  ap 
preciation  satisfied  even  Colonel  Jim. 

"And  now,"  said  the  autocrat  boldly,  though  his 
throat  as  he  spoke  seemed  to  close,  "if  the  rest  of 
you-all  don't  object,  I've  a  special  small  tree  over 
there  by  the  lake,"  —  he  pointed,  and  Julia  smiled 
softly  to  note  that  the  big  hand  was  steady,  —  "that 
I  first  want  to  show  just  to  Sis." 

There  were  two  starts  of  instinctive  surprise.  One 
came  from  Ciceley,  the  other,  instantaneously  checked, 
from  Lucille.  A  palsying  silence  ensued,  that  sort  of 
a  social  hiatus  where  each  gasps  in  a  wordless  vacuum, 
where  every  one  travails  for  speech,  only  to  throw  on 
the  brakes,  in  terror  of  verbal  collision. 

Lucille  gazed  in  impersonal  absorption  at  the  sky. 
Sylvia's  eyes  went  to  Wickford  and  stayed  there. 
Mark,  Julia,  and  Jim  alike  struggled  nobly  to  see 
nothing  at  all. 

The  small  figure  in  brown  plainly  faltered.  Her 
wide-opened,  brown  eyes  went  to  each  face  in  turn. 
With  each  instant,  they  seemed  to  grow  wider. 
Julia,  leaning  close,  touched  her.  "Go,  Ciceley, 
go  with  Jim." 

As  her  mother  obeyed,  the  tall  girl  moved  un 
certainly  toward  Julia.  One  hand  was  outspread  as 


302  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

if  groping  her  way  through  a  blinding  radiance. 
Julia  drew  the  girl's  face  to  her  own.  Their  cheeks 
quivered  close  for  an  instant  and  in  parting  disclosed 
the  shimmer  of  tears. 

Through  the  sunshine  Jim's  great  shoulders  swung 
ahead.  Rover  trotted  sedately  at  heel.  Ciceley's 
feet,  more  than  once,  seemed  to  stumble,  at  which 
Jim  turned.  "Am  I  walking  too  fast  for  you,  Sis?" 

Julia,  rousing  herself  with  an  effort,  asked,  "Shall 
we  go  back  to  the  house?"  They  denied  through  the 
hedge,  silent,  speechless,  a  passage  of  low-breathing 
shadows. 

On  reaching  the  avenue,  Wick  suddenly  sprang  into 
life.  "Come  on,  Sylvia.  I'll  race  you  as  far  as  the 
gate  for  a  big  box  of  sweets  ! "  The  abandoned  ones, 
still  strangely  silent,  kept  meticulous  tread  toward  the 
house. 

With  a  hand  on  the  gold  of  his  tree,  Jim's  tramp 
ended.  His  companion  gave  one  questioning  glance. 
The  look,  swift  and  demure,  had  been  quite  enough 
to  assure  her  that  to  no  seasonable  exhibit  of  fruit 
had  she  been  led.  It  was  autumn  indeed,  and  the 
harvest,  but  here  on  Jim's  special,  small  tree  had 
grown  something  that  whispered  of  springtime  and 
joy.  Its  perfume  flowed  out  in  a  rapture.  She 
lifted  one  hand,  touched  the  flowers,  and  then  eyes 
and  hand  suddenly  fell. 

Though  she  tried,  she  could  not  force  her  eyes  to  a 
meeting.  She  felt  that  he  gazed  down  upon  her,  his 
soul  in  his  own.  The  intent  of  his  planning  had 
caught  her.  She  knew  why  he  had  wanted  "just 
Sis."  That  ridiculous  old  promise  was  broken,  and 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  303 

he  had  taken  this  tender  and  beautiful  way  of  sur 
render.  How  lover-like  —  thoughtful  —  romantic ! 
Dear  old  Jim !  Dear,  faithful  retainer !  Well,  at 
last  she  could  give  all  he  craved ! 

Her  lids  were  down-freighted  with  gladness,  the 
gladness  that  giving  can  bring.  Her  cheeks  flew 
bright  banners  of  scarlet.  Now  both  hands  fluttered 
up  to  the  blossoms.  Without  breaking  it,  she  bent 
the  lithe  spray  to  a  coronet  of  ivory,  topaz,  and  pearl, 
and  held  it  in  place,  —  held  it  there  in  the  sunlight 
before  him,  and  the  blood  in  her  veins  ran  in  fire. 

Wave  after  wave  of  exquisite  shyness  assailed  her. 
And  then,  out  of  nowhere,  a  menace.  Why,  why  was 
the  man  standing  silent  ?  Was  he  never  to  speak,  — 
never  stir  ?  Rover  whimpered  and  crept  into  shadow. 
Then  out  of  the  dark  came  Jim's  voice,  quiet,  deter 
mined.  "Even  that's  not  enough,  Little  Sis." 

For  an  instant  she  found  herself  reeling.  The 
spray,  like  a  whiplash,  sprang  back  into  place.  With 
clenched  fists  she  drew  herself  upright.  "I'm  afraid 
that  I  don't  understand." 

"But  you  will;  but  you  must,  Little  Ciceley. 
You  must  make  me  be  sure  once  for  all.  You  re 
member  that  promise  I  made  us?" 

Through  lips  gray  as  ashes  she  repeated  more 
clearly,  "I  do  not  understand." 

Jim  shook  his  bared  head  in  the  sunlight.  "I 
am  sure  that  you  do,  Little  Sis." 

"Do  you  mean?"  she  cried  now,  half-incredulous, 
"that  you  brought  me  out  here  —  that  you  dared 
bring  me  way  off  out  here  just  with  you  and  these 
flowers"  —  here  she  gave  them  a  fleck  of  disdain, 


304  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

"in  the  hope,  with  the  definite  intention,  of  forcing 
me  to  —  to  —  The  sentence  snapped  short.  Those 
were  words  that  her  voice  could  not  carry. 

Jim,  in  silence,  replaced  his  felt  hat. 

With  a  low,  stifled  cry,  she  went  past  him.  Anger, 
scorn,  outraged  dignity  burned  in  her  eyes.  At  her 
look  the  man's  heart  stopped  its  beating.  He  stood 
like  a  thing  carved  in  stone. 

A  few  feet  away  Ciceley  hesitated.  Then  she 
paused,  her  face  still  turned  away.  She  seemed  to 
be  fighting  an  impulse.  Jim  gritted  his  teeth  and 
said"  God!" 

Now  the  pink  chin  turned  slightly  toward  him. 
"So  you  thought,"  she  flung  over  her  shoulder,  "that 
in  this  way  you'd  even  old  scores !  You  had  dared 
to  believe  you  could  make  me,  make  me,  Ciceley 
Taliaferro,  get  down  on  my  knees  at  your  feet !  You, 
the  man  I  had  thought  such  a  gentleman,  to  descend 
to  an  insult  like  this.  Well,  I  won't  —  never  — 
never !  Not  to  save  you  from  death.  You  should 
have  known  me  and  yourself  better,  Mister  Jim 
Roy." 

She  moved  round  by  a  few  inches  more  to  observe 
him.  Jim  this  time  did  not  brave  the  brown  eyes. 
He  stared  down  at  the  earth,  hopeless,  beaten,  and 
offered  no  word  of  defence. 

At  such  moments  of  /passion  nothing  flays  like 
persistence  in  silence.  A  new  swirl  of  wrath  caught 
her  up  bodily,  flung  her  round,  and  deposited  her 
facing  him. 

"There's  just  one  thing  more,  Mr.  Roy,  and  I'll 
leave  you.  Perhaps  you'll  have  enough  decency, 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  305 

enough  manliness,  to  assure  me  that  if  I  had  — 
had  -  Again  she  choked  on  the  words. 

Jim  looked  up.  His  voice  sounded  weary.  "Are 
you  trying  to  get  me  to  say  whether,  if  you  had  been 
the  thoroughbred  I  thought  you,  my  answer  would 
have  been  'yes'  or  'no'?" 

"You're  a  monster!  But  tell  me,  Jim,  tell  me.  I 
must  know  so  much,  or  I  can't  live.  Oh,  surely  it 
was  not  all  for  my  punishment,  for  only  this  hideous 
humiliation !  You  could  not  hate  a  leper  like  that ! " 

Jim  writhed  and  groaned  as  under  thumbscrews. 
Ciceley's  smile,  winning,  pleading,  flashed  light. 
She  hastened  to  reach  him.  One  cajoling  small 
hand  touched  his  sleeve.  The  man  felt  himself 
vanquished,  then,  with  one  supreme  effort,  more 
demoniac  than  human,  laid  hold  of  his  struggling 
purpose  and  compelled  it  to  bend  to  his  will. 

"It  won't  work,  Sis.  This  isn't  a  game  we  are 
playing.  It  means  for  me  a  break-up  of  everything 
now  existing.  I  am  going  to  sell  my  plantation. 
I'll  give  your  girls  all  that  I've  made,  if  you'll  let  me. 
God  knows  the  stuff's  useless  to  me.  I'm  no  quitter 
of  life.  I  shall  do  nothing  desperate  or  cowardly, 
but  I'm  going  to  clear  out  from  the  Hill !  That's 
about  all,  I  believe.  Come.  It's  time  we  went 
back  to  the  others." 

He  turned  and  had  started  when  she,  with  the  cry 
of  a  child  in  the  night  suddenly  waking,  called  "Jim ! 
Oh,  dear  Jim!" 

"Yes?"  said  he,  stoically. 

"Just  a  minute.  The  flowers,  the  orange-spray. 
You  said  you  had  kept  them  for  me." 


3o6  THE    STIRRUP   LATCH 

For  answer  he  drew  out  his  pocket-knife.  "Wait 
—  wait,"  she  implored,  catching  the  hand  that 
opened  it.  "  Give  me — give  me  just — just—  Oh  !" 
she  sobbed,  "I  do  want  to.  But  I  can't.  I  just 
can't.  I  do  not  know  how!" 

Jim  sent  the  knife  spinning.  He  stooped  and  took 
into  his  own  her  small,  icy  hands. 

" Don't  you  see,  Sis,"  he  reasoned.  "Can't  you 
understand  what  this  test  means  to  me?  All  my 
life  long  I  have  cared  for  you  —  have  tried  hard  to 
win  you.  Ghosts  and  phantoms  have  kept  you 
away.  They  are  gone  now,  because  Julia  came  back 
to  rout  them.  I  know  they  are  gone.  I  believe 
that  you,  too  —  But  I  swore  to  you,  God,  and 
myself,  that  my  last  chunk  of  dirt  had  been  swallowed. 
If  this  wonder  of  happiness  is  true,  and  you  care  for 
me,  even  a  little,  don't  you  see,"  here  the  low  voice 
fell  ragged,  "that  you  should  not  be  willing,  you  of 
yourself  shouldn't  want  me  to  eat  any  more  ?  " 

"And  you  shan't!"  she  broke  in,  with  a  voice 
that  felled  the  last  shadow.  Before  he  could  sus 
pect  her  intention,  she  was  down  on  her  knees,  and 
a  pink  palmfull  of  sand  was  on  its  way  to  her  lips. 

He  caught  it  and  scattered  it  far.  "Not  for  you 
either,  you,  my  one  love,"  said  he  brokenly.  "Oh, 
Sis.  Oh  my  little  brown  butterfly,  have  I  won  you 
at  last?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Ciceley,  as  well  as  she  could 
from  her  ambush,  "that  is,  if  you're  sure  that  you're 
willing  to  marry  me,  Mister  James  Roy." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

THE  FUTURE,  —  THROUGH  A  HOLLY  WREATH 

THE  wedding  took  place  on  Christmas  morning, 
at  Little  Sunshine.  Immediately  after  the  cere 
mony,  and  on  the  same  spot,  with  the  same  smiling 
and  furtively  teary  assemblage  looking  on,  Mammy 
Nycie  and  old  Uncle  Snow  joined  their  black,  toil- 
worn  hands  for  the  rest  of  life's  pilgrimage  together. 

The  two  bridal  parties  adjourned  directly  to  Stag 
Harbor.  The  splendid  old  mansion  had,  of  itself, 
the  look  of  a  bride.  The  high,  fluted  columns,  white 
now  as  linen  newly  bleached,  were  festooned  and 
twined  in  wild  smilax,  interwoven  with  berries  in 
clusters  of  coral  red.  From  the  open  door  down  to  the 
last  gallery  step  and  beyond  it  ran  a  strip  of  crimson 
carpeting,  its  borders  concealed  by  holly  and  smilax. 

On  the  top  step,  like  Midas-touched  flunkies, 
stood  two  orange  trees  in  a  tumult  of  fruiting.  These 
had  been  withheld  from  the  general  harvesting  and 
transplanted  into  mammoth  green  tubs. 

In  the  house  the  enormous  half-circular  ballroom, 
embellished  with  flowers  and  evergreens,  was  in 
use  as  a  central  refectory.  On  tables,  sideboards,  and 
buffets,  stood  all  manner  of  savory  roast  meats,  fowl, 

307 


3o8  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

ducks,  pigs,  ham,  spiced  beef,  and  the  delectable  wild 
turkey. 

Not  content  with  the  prodigal  outlay,  Julia  had 
managed  to  secure,  through  the  hands  of  the  genii 
who  served  her,  the  piece  de  resistance  of  a  genuine 
boar's  head.  For  its  cooking  a  special  brick  oven 
had  needed  to  be  built.  Encrusted,  brown,  gaunt,  it 
sprang  from  its  platter  of  parsley,  and  its  eyes,  now 
two  radishes  cut  to  show  centers  of  white,  glared  a 
dreadful  defiance  on  all  who  dared  to  approach. 
Ciceley,  seeing  it,  shuddered.  "Why,"  she  whispered 
to  Jim,  clinging  close,  her  startled  face  averted,  "I 
would  just  as  soon  try  to  eat  the  head  of  John  the 
Baptist!" 

In  an  alcove  which  Jim  and  his  confreres  quite 
shamelessly  frequented,  could  be  found  various 
Brobdingnagian  vessels  conserving  eggnog,  apple 
toddy,  claret  cup,  sherry  cobbler,  and  mulled  port 
for  the  ladies.  More  than  one  heirloom  punch  bowl, 
extracted  from  dust-covered  corners,  had  been  prof 
fered  for  use. 

It  was  truly  an  all-day,  and  far-into-the-evening, 
symposium.  The  entire  Hill,  white  and  black,  had 
been  bidden.  By  midnight,  with  the  stopping  of 
tramcars,  and  the  long  string  of  motors  in  waiting, 
it  would  seem  that  quite  half  of  the  town  had  come, 
also. 

Mrs.  Rogers  grew  alarmingly  giddy,  even  essaying 
some  moth-eaten  jokes.  The  three  Misses  Turren- 
tine,  three  timid,  starched  figures,  contributively 
arrayed  by  the  kind-hearted  Hill,  exchanged  awe- 
stricken  whispers  behind  sandal-wood  and  turkey- 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  309 

tail  fans.  It  was  Yuletide,  said  they,  as  they  always 
had  dreamed  of  the  revel.  It  was  wassail,  as  their 
own  sturdy  ancestors  had  known  it.  In  the  midst 
of  rejoicing  they  grew  sad,  these  wan  souls,  in  think 
ing  of  long  vanished  splendors. 

But  the  Big  House,  rocked  and  vibrant  as  it  was 
with  the  ring  and  the  echoes  of  laughter,  showed  but 
part  of  celebration.  At  the  edge  of  the  orchard  stood 
the  packing  shed,  a  low,  cheaply  constructed  build 
ing,  as  long  as  the  drive  of  a  bowling  alley.  Having 
served  its  annual  purpose,  it  was  given,  without 
question  or  restriction,  into  the  hands  of  Uncle  Snow. 
The  rough  walls  now  gloomed  behind  banners  of 
red  and  white  cheesecloth.  Some  poetic  and  over 
wrought  assistant  had  to  this  pasted  huge  tinsel 
stars.  Holly,  mistletoe,  cedar,  and  smilax  hid  securely 
the  crude  wooden  ceiling.  A  continuous  table,  with 
benches,  ran  almost  the  length  of  the  floor.  At  one 
end  sat  "de  bride's  cake",  vast  and  white,  with  a 
pagoda-like  structure  surmounting  it,  and  crowned  at 
a  neck-breaking  angle  by  a  filagree  cupola,  in  which 
stood  two  figures,  a  miniature  bride  and  her  groom. 
At  the  other  end  a  similar  achievement,  on  the  apex 
of  which  fluttered  a  naked  pink  Cupid,  denoted  the 
place  of  "de  bridegroom."  These  marvellous  struc 
tures,  one  concealing  a  white  cake,  the  other  a  black, 
rich  with  raisins  and  sherry,  had  been  gifts  from 
Ciceley  and  Jim. 

Not  all  at  once  was  a  knife  to  assail  them.  The 
main  banquet  was  yet  to  be  served.  Not  so  far  away 
that  the  exquisite  aromas  could  not  rush  in  to  tanta 
lize  and  spur,  in  glowing  earthen  trenches,  where  for 


310  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

three  days  oak  and  hickory  had  steadily  crackled, 
now  roasted,  writhed,  dripped,  sputtered,  and  hissed 
such  a  barbecue  as  the  world  had  not  previously 
seen.  To  the  viands  acceptable  to  "  white  folks  " 
had  been  added  a  family  of  possums.  Surely  if  Hymen 
possessed  even  rudimentary  nostrils,  he  would  flee 
from  Olympus  for  this. 

Mark  did  not  remain  for  the  wedding.  His  leave 
of  absence  had  expired,  and  there  were  certain  busi 
ness  necessities  calling.  His  true  reason,  he  said  to 
them  mournfully,  essaying  glances  of  haggard  reproach 
first  to  Jim  then  to  Ciceley,  "was  that  after  the 
anguish  already  received  at  their  hands,  it  was  quite, 
don't  you  know,  quite  beyond  a  chap's  powers  of 
endurance." 

"When  I  reflect,"  mused  the  Honorable  Mark, 
in  a  tone  of  most  bitter  resentment,  "that  that  same 
perjured  woman  might  have  had  me  !" 

As  if  in  the  final  abyss  of  dejection,  Mark  bowed 
his  sleek  head.  But  in  spite  of  such  melancholy  dis 
courses,  his  demeanor  was  far  from  being  that  of  a 
heartbroken  man. 

At  the  station  where,  still  protesting  and  reluc 
tant  to  lose  him,  the  six  gathered  to  bid  him  "God 
speed",  his  last  clasp  of  the  hand  was  for  Lucille. 
The  others,  with  bright,  interchanged  glances,  moved 
away.  But  for  the  passing  and  repassing  of  shadowy 
strangers,  the  two  were  alone. 

The  man,  without  speaking,  stared  down  to  a 
face  waxen  white  and  more  beautiful  than  moonlight 
on  mist.  Her  eyes  lifted  to  his. 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  311 

"When  the  harvest  is  with  you  again — if  I  come — 
he  asked  slowly,  "will  you  walk  in  the  Garden  of  Hes- 
perides  ?    I  had  hoped  —  I  have  dared  to  believe 
that  earth's  most  exquisite  flower  might  be  blooming 
there,  just  for  me." 

The  girl  kept  his  look  without  shrinking.  All  her 
latent  nobility,  her  fineness  grown  deeper  through 
suffering,  rose  through  her  soul.  The  cloak  of  false 
pride  slipped  away,  and  forever. 

"Into  that  garden,  Mark,  or  into  the  Valley  of 
Shadows.  Either  would  be  golden  if  you  wanted  me 
there." 

Being  English,  with  others  about  them,  he  neither 
kissed  nor  embraced  her.  For  an  instant  his  hand 
closed  on  hers  till  the  pressure,  had  she  felt  it  at  all, 
might  have  been  physical  agony.  "Oh,  my  darling 
—  my  dear,"  said  he  raggedly,  and  was  gone. 

Julia,  her  son,  and  the  two  Bering  girls  remained 
on  at  Little  Sunshine.  One  day  early  in  summer, 
without  warning,  the  Executive  calmly  announced 
her  intention  of  going  for  "a  little  run  over  to  Eng 
land." 

"Why!"  gasped  Ciceley,  —  she  and  Jim  chanced 
to  be  present,  —  "You  talk  like  it  was  no  more  than 
stepping  up  to  the  Hill  post-office !" 

"And  no  more  it  is,  when  you're  used  to  it," 
sparkled  Julia.  More  seriously  she  bent  to  explain 
that  the  firm  of  Preston  and  Preston  were  in  need  of 
certain  wall  papers  and  a  few  "Adam"  accessories 
which  even  New  York  had  been  unable  to  supply. 

"I've  had  samples  sent,"  complained  Julia,  "till 
my  brain  has  become  a  crazy  quilt.  We  must  have 


3i2  THE   STIRRUP   LATCH 

them  to  finish  that  Belden  remodelling.  Of  course 
Wick  can't  leave  too,"  she  flung,  laughing,  to  a  half- 
smothered  cry  from  the  Posy.  "He  must  stay  on 
the  job  till  it's  finished.  The  only  objection  to  the 
trip;  I  can  see,"  -  here  she  paused,  and  at  her 
bright  quizzical  expression,  each  listener  grew  tense 
and  alert.  "You  girls  can't  live  on  here  with  Wick- 
ford.  Sis  and  I  should  have  to  divide  you  trouble 
some  young  creatures  between  us.  Now,  Jim,"  she 
cried  to  that  smiling  and  most  blissful  person,  "you 
and  Mrs.  James  Roy  have  had  a  full  six  months  of 
honeymoon.  In  spite  of  your  doting  conviction 
that  you're  still  a  week-old  bridegroom,  you  ought  to 
be  willing  to  shelter  two  babes  in  the  woods." 

"Well,  rather!"  grinned  Jim,  and  Ciceley  fer 
vently  echoed,  "Oh,  can  we  have  the  two  darlings? 
How  lovely !  But  my  big  girl,  Lucille?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  sighed  Julia,  as  if  burdened. 
"We  must  find  a  place  for  tethering  the  future  Mrs. 
Stanwood.  Engaged  girls  are  a  nuisance.  Now  my 
plan  —  of  course  the  future  Mrs.  Mark  may  not  be 
willing  —  is  to  ask  her  to  come  al — " 

The  sentence  was  strangled  to  gurgles.  Lucille, 
forgetting  her  dignities  in  as  madcap  a  whirl  as  had 
ever  spun  Sylvia,  was  prone  in  her  cousin's  arms. 
"  Oh,  you  seraph  —  you  angel !  How  is  it  that  always 
you  think  of  things  so  perfectly  beautiful  and  wonder 
ful  we  don't  dare  to  think  them  ourselves?" 

They  returned  in  October,  Mark  with  them.  By 
now  he  was  in  acute  stages  of  love's  madness.  He 
would  not  wait  for  harvests,  nor  Christmas,  nor  even 
the  finishing  of  a  trousseau.  "I  want  her  right  now," 


THE   STIRRUP   LATCH  313 

he  declared  and  maintained,  in  the  face  of  all  femi 
nine  objection.  "When  I  see  Colonel  Jim,  with  a 
mug  like  the  sun  at  noon,  ramping  around  in  that 
two-year-old  fashion,  I  want  my  dip  in  the  fountain 
of  youth,  too.  Dash  it  all,  can't  you  see  that  I'm 
dying  without  her !  Yes,  I'll  bring  her  back  soon." 

This  to  the  pleading  and  quivering-lipped  Ciceley. 
"I  fancy  that  neither  of  us  can  be  kept  from  the  Hill 
very  long.  And  Jim's  going  to  bring  you  to  England 
next  summer.  But  I  warn  you,  I'm  going  to  marry 
her  now,  in  a  week  at  the  longest.  She's  willing, 
God  bless  her !  —  the  good  sort  she  is  !  And  if  any 
of  you  kill-joys  try  to  prevent  us  — !" 

Consent  being  thus  wrested,  Mark,  keyed  to  excite 
ment  already,  his  voice  and  his  eyes  full  of  light, 
turned  suddenly  to  Wickford  and  Sylvia,  demand 
ing,  "And  when  are  these  juvenile  nuptials  to  take 
place?" 

Sylvia  squealed  and  fled  in  a  panic.  Wick  fol 
lowed  as  inevitably  as  the  tail  to  a  kite. 

"Not  yet  —  not  quite  yet,"  answered  Julia,  when 
the  two  best-beloved,  scampering  figures  had  rounded 
the  end  of  a  hedge.  "She's  our  littlest  girl  —  our 
one  baby.  Sis  and  I  are  not  willing  to  give  her  up 
altogether,  not  even  to  Wickford.  And  then,  you, 
bold  robber,  are  stealing  Lucille.  The  young  birds 
have  plenty  of  time  for  their  happiness.  We  allow 
them  to  twitter  of  nesting.  Wick  and  Sylvia  work 
every  evening  together  on  the  plans  of  a  lamb  of  a 
cottage  to  be  built  on  the  old  Wickford  lot."  Now 
herfeyes  were  on  Mark's,  straight  and  shining.  "  Once 
on  a  time,  long  ago,"  she  said  softly,  her  voice  taking 


314  THE   STIRRUP  LATCH 

the  croon  and  the  rhythm  of  a  fairy  tale,  "there 
lived  on  that  spot  a  queer  little  girl  called  Julia 
Wickford.  Isn't  it  sweet?" 

"Yes,  it's  sweet,"  Mark  made  answer,  and  held 
Lucille  very  close  at  his  side.  "But  you,  dearest 
lady.  The  unselfish  one  —  the  giver  of  good  gifts  to 
others  —  what  of  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear  Jule  —  dear,  dear  Cousin  Julia,"  came 
in  low  breaths. 

Julia  looked  slowly  from  one  loving  face  to  another. 
"Don't  be  sorry  for  me,"  she  cried  bravely.  "If  it's 
true  —  and  I  know  that  in  some  part  it  is  true  — 
that  I've  helped  you  all  win  in  the  quest  of  the  heart's 
desire,  don't  you  see  that  each  tiny  fiber  of  your  hap 
piness  is  part  of  my  being?  I  have  mothered  the 
brood  of  fledgling  dreams-that-came-true.  Now,  if 
you're  asking  for  plain  facts,  not  rhapsodies  —  well, 
they're  all  worked  out,  too.  Jim  and  Sis  have  given 
me  outright,  have  made  me  accept  for  my  lifetime 
-  this  dear  place,  Little  Sunshine,  which  I  have  al 
ways  loved.  It's  to  be  my  own  haven,  my  sanctuary. 
All  my  trivial,  precious  possessions  I  shall  bring 
here.  My  books,  papers,  typewriter,  sewing-machine, 
my  big  copper  preserving  kettle  —  all  the  material 
me  !  I  shall  work  out  in  Ciceley's  garden  —  know  the 
wind  and  the  rain  and  the  sun  —  know  the  joy,  as 
the  old  Chinese  poet  has  phrased  it,  of  'seeing  all 
things  fall  due  in  their  season.'  Through  the  yellow 
jessamine  hedge  one  more  gate,  a  wee,  fringy  gate 
shall  be  cut.  Soon  its  call  shall  be  answered,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  road,  by  another  —  in  Wick- 
ford's  new  fence.  I  shall  never  be  lonely  —  not  here 


THE   STIRRUP  LATCH  315 

on  the  Hill,  with  so  many  dear,  precious  friends  to 
love  me  — 

"Love  you!  Well,  they  had  better!"  roared  Jim, 
in  this  way  barely  escaping  the  horror  of  bursting 
into  tears.  "If  I  find  a  man-jack  in  the  bunch  who 
doesn't  love  you,  who  wouldn't  lie  down  on  his 
back  and  let  you  wipe  your  shoes  on  his  face  if  you 
wanted  to  —  why — why,"  here  he  glowered  the  threat 
of  impartial  annihilation,  "I'd  skin'em  alive  with  my 
own  hands,  and  sing  Hallelujah  while  skinnin'  'em ! 
Love  the  finest,  best  woman  God  ever  sent  down  to 
this  earth  —  well,  they'd  better,  that's  all ! " 

Julia,  a  little  tremulous  with  the  laughter  that 
followed  this  chivalric  outburst,  said  once  more,  very 
gently,  "And  the  best  of  it  all  is  just  this  —  I  can 
never  be  lonely.  Sis  will  come  to  me,  perhaps  every 
day.  Jim  will  never  be  far.  Little  Sylvia  and  my 
dear  boy  will  be  living  scarcely  a  stone's  throw  away. 
And  then,  as  the  soft  years  brush  past  us,  new  feet 
will  stray  into  my  paths  —  little  feet  —  stealing  in, 
just  to  find  me.  Then  more  years.  Sis  and  I  shall 
be  getting  to  be  white-haired  old  ladies.  But  the 
bringers  of  new  life  are  here.  Little  hands  —  our 
own  hands  —  it  may  be,  folded  just  now  in  a  golden 
Nirvana  —  will  stretch  down  —  reaching  —  reaching 
-  to  touch  the  old  stirrup  latch.  It  will  be  sweet  — 
very  sweet  —  here  in  my  garden,  'when  the  eve  is 
cool.'  " 

THE   END 


A  worthy  successor  of"  Truth  Dexter."  —  Boston  Globe. 


ARIADNE  OF  ALLAN  WATER 


By  SIDNEY  McCALL 

Author  of  "  The  Stirrup  Latch,"  "  Truth  Dexter,"  etc. 
Illustrated.    12mo.   $1.35  net. 


A  thoroughly  charming  Virginia  love  story. — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

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months.  — Philadelphia  Record. 

The  novel  is  rich  in  spontaneous  humor,  shrewd  observations 
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—  Philadelphia  Press. 

A  well-told  story,  whose  strong  emotional  interest  is  sus 
tained  from  the  first  to  the  last,  while  its  many  dramatic  situa 
tions  are  handled  with  strength  and  skill.  Many  of  the  scenes 
take  place  on  an  old  homestead  in  Virginia,  of  which  the  author 
makes  tender  and  graphic  pictures.  — New  York  Times. 

Ariadne  is  always  beautiful,  always  good  —  another  Truth 
Dexter,  who  will  be  warmly  welcomed  by  friends  of  her  pred 
ecessor  and  enjoyed  by  everyone  who  meets  her,  for  her  own 
many  good  qualities  and  because  of  the  stirring  narrative  of 
her  remarkable  adventures.  The  plot  of  the  story  is  original,  if 
somewhat  improbable,  and  well  developed.  —  Boston  Transcript. 


LITTLE,  BROWN  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 

34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


The  work  of  a  genius.     A  story  that  will  live  '* 


THE  BEEATH  OF 
THE  GODS 


By  SIDNEY  McCALL 
Author  of  "Truth  Dexter" 

12mo.  Cloth,  431  pages.  $1.35  net 


A  'great  American  novel,  if  not  the  American  novel.  — 
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A  powerful  story  with  vivid  descriptions  and  a  thrilling 
and  unexpected  climax.  —  Boston  Herald. 

Strikes  an  unusual  note  and  will  live  beyond  the 
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A  masterly  delineation  of  men  and  women  caught  in 
the  swift  current  of  events.  —  Baltimore  Sun. 

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The  Most  Lovable  Heroine  in  Modern  Fiction 


TRUTH  DEXTER 


By  SIDNEY  McCALL 
Author  of  "  The  Breath  of  the  Gods  " 

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A  novel  of  united  North  and  South  of  rare  power  and 
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I  don't  know  how  to  praise  it  enough.  I  can't  recall  any 
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Sidney  McCalVs  New  American  Novel 


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Author  of  "  Truth  Dexter,"  "  The  Breath  of  the  Gods,"  etc. 

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The  best  work  Mrs.  Fenollosa  has  given  us.  It  will  be 
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thrilled  by  this  book,  even  in  the  light  of  a  human  docu 
ment. —  Lilian  Whiting  in  New  Orleans  Times-Democrat. 

A  story  of  emotion,  intensely  dramatic,  and  told  with 
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—  St.  Louis  Globe  Democrat. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


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